


Endings

by Laure001



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 70,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Endings" is a collection of independent stories. You can read those stories in any order, or skip the ones you don't like. </p><p>New independent story: <b>Wait, Quinn. You still have chocolate on your butt.</b> For the Fic Advent Calendar.</p><p>
  <b>(Complete!) </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one without all the fucking tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> New story : Chapter 22 - **Wait, Quinn. You still have chocolate on your butt.**
> 
> "Endings" is a collection of independent stories. Alternate endings for... Season Two, Season Three, Four, Five, Six... For imaginary plots, for stuff that will hopefully never happen... Just endings.
> 
> You can read them in any order you like, and skip one if you don't like it. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: the second one is very dark. But it's the only one (for now) who doesn't respect the "Happy Ending" tag.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative ending for Season Two.

\- Let’s just go have a drink, Carrie says to Quinn, after a long afternoon of work.

They are dismantling the rest of Abu-Nazir’s network in the US. It’s a boring task, but sometimes Carrie wakes up at night and imagines what would have happened if they hadn’t stopped Nazir’s post mortem crazy scheme. The plan that Estes has since called “The CIA Bombing”. They arrested the bomber in time, but it was so close. Just… think about it. What could have happened. The sheer number of casualties. The international ramifications. The deaths of all Carrie’s colleagues, friends, superiors. 

But it _didn’t_ happen. Thanks to Brody, they stopped it in time, and then Brody went into the witness protection program and vanished into thin air with his family – without even saying goodbye to Carrie. She should have been devastated, but strangely she was not. Because… she had won. She had been right about Brody. She (they) had killed Abu-Nazir. She (they) had stopped his evil plans. And, you know what? Professional victories, the praise of your colleagues, official congratulations by Estes (and a fucking medal!) happen to be very efficient ways to mend a broken heart. Bonnie Tyler should make a song about it someday.

\- A drink where? Quinn asks.

\- At this nice little hotel bar, down the street? You know?

\- No I don’t. You’re the one who go to bars every night.

Carrie snorts.

\- Oh, sure. At night, you just go home and knit.

Quinn smiles.

\- Among other things. 

The truth is, Carrie doesn’t know what Quinn does at night– they generally only interact at work. This “drink” is the first– which is weird, Carrie thinks, because she and Quinn, they get along really well. 

Quinn’s not her boss anymore. Estes demoted him, he put Saul back at the head of the operation and added a few analysts. Carrie is sure there is a reason. Something happened between Estes and Quinn, there’s bad blood there, she can feel it.

Quinn has taken his career setback with philosophy, though, and yeah, they interact really well. Carrie knows he was Black Ops before, Saul told her – and Quinn knows she knows – so, does that mean she knows he knows she knows? Anyway, they haven’t talked about it.

\- Well, ok, fine, let’s go to your bar, Quinn sighs, like it’s just such a drag to go have a drink with a beautiful woman, and Carrie feels vaguely offended.

Not for long, really, because when they’re there, sitting on bar stools, sipping their glasses of Monkey Shoulder (a really nice and expensive whisky Sam the bartender has recommended) Carrie realizes – life is pretty good. Last year at the same time she was a pariah, locked up in a hospital room getting fucking ECT. Now, she has the recognition of her peers, an interesting mission, and she’s working with competent people. 

But she still wants to annoy Quinn a little.

\- So it’s such a hardship to have a drink with me, huh?

Quinn reacts as expected – with quickness and a smile – they always have impeccable timing when it comes to banter.

\- It is. But I know where my duty lies. I take it as an exercise in team building.

\- So generous of you to play along.

\- Thank you for recognizing it. Does that mean you’re paying for the drinks?

\- Fine, Carrie says happily. I will. But you pay for the second round.

Quinn looks at her with a puzzled smile.

\- I can’t believe you caved so easily. What’s wrong with you?

\- Nothing, she says, and she smiles again (Why can’t she stop smiling?). I just feel good today.

\- Oh, ok, he says, watching her, and she can see he’s in a good mood too, or maybe her good mood is kind of rubbing on him, and yes, that’s exactly what’s happening, she realizes – Quinn’s happy to see her happy. 

So without thinking, she leans towards him, puts her hand on his cheek, and kisses him. On the lips, a little open mouthed kiss, not too much – but still, not a friendly kiss, and he…

And he jumps so high that he actually… spills his whisky, no, worse, the glass actually falls and shatters on the floor and then Quinn himself jumps off his stool, looking at the mess.

\- Fuck, he mutters.

Carrie is stunned. It’s… not the reaction she was expecting. Not that she was expecting a particular reaction, really, she just acted on instinct, but… wow. Ok. For a moment, she feels so embarrassed she just wish the earth would swallow her, you know, like in the old songs.

\- Huh… Sorry, she mutters, her good mood totally evaporated. Sorry.

Quinn doesn’t answer, he just stares at the fallen glass, then at Sam the bartender who’s coming with a broom and a mop and a weary look on his face.

\- Er, Sam, I’m really sorry, Carrie whispers. 

Hoping he didn’t see what happened, and how she just made a fool of herself.

Quinn’s still not looking at her and Carrie’s avoiding his eyes now too anyway, and there are a few tense moments where they can’t say anything because Sam is here, between them, cleaning. And when Sam is finished, he goes back behind the counter, pours another glass and offers it to Quinn: 

\- This is on me, guys.

Then Sam moves away, thank God, to serve other customers and Quinn is back on his stool and Carrie says at once

\- Quinn, I’m so sorry, please forgive me. Please. I’m… I don’t know why I… Just chalk it up to the whisky, ok? 

But Quinn’s looking at her, all thoughtful. Staring at her, studying her, trying to read her, like she’s a fucking asset, so now she feels mad – or maybe she prefers feeling mad to feeling embarrassed.

\- I have to say, she mutters, when I kiss guys it’s generally not the reaction I get.

\- I was surprised, he finally answers, in a very noncommittal tone – still staring at her like she’s a rat in a lab.

\- Yeah, I got that, Carrie says. And not happily surprised, I gather.

Quinn's still studying her – and Carrie’s anger disappears, because really, how obnoxious is she right now? First she throws herself at him, and now she doesn’t even give him the right to dismiss her? She’s mad at him because he doesn’t want her? 

She stands up, she gathers her things, she apologizes again.

\- I’m just… gonna go home, she adds. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu, or…

Quinn stands up too – she thinks it’s just a polite way to acknowledge she is leaving – but then he takes a step forward, put his hand on her cheek, and kisses her back – exactly the same kiss, on the lips, the mouth a little open, and then he hesitates, and then he goes for another one – short, too – but a little deeper, and then he sits back on his stool.

Carrie hesitates. Then she puts her bag back on the counter. She puts her coat back on the chair. 

She gets back on her stool. 

Quinn is gesturing at Sam, showing his glass. 

\- Can I get another one? 

\- You’re not even half finished with this one, Sam protests, and then Quinn stammers something about wanting two drinks at the same time, something sweeter, to go well with the whisky, and what he says makes no sense, it’s so obviously bullshit, the thing is, Carrie realizes, Quinn’s just flustered and he doesn’t want to look at her.

Sam listens to Quinn’s mangled explanations with incredulity and finally serves him an Amaretto – that Quinn doesn’t touch, by the way, but this weird intermission has given Carrie some time to think. And then, she gets it – not that it should have been so difficult to get, for a damn CIA agent.

Quinn likes her. You know, he liiiiiiiiiiiikes her.

That’s why he spilled the glass after the kiss, that’s why he kissed her back, that’s why he’s avoiding her gaze just now. Everything crystallizes in Carrie’s mind. Their relationship, the little incidents, the conversations, the strange looks he’s giving her sometimes and it’s so damn obvious now, why didn’t she see it earlier? 

Brody, of course, is why. First she was with Brody, and then she was getting over Brody. But now, Brody’s gone, in all ways that matter. So when Quinn finally turns to her, his whisky in hand and a studied look of indifference on his face, he is greeted by a confident smile. 

Carrie’s ready for battle. 

\- The thing is… Quinn begins. (He hesitates.) No, he says. Forget the thing. (He rises his glass, with a smirk.) Now we’re equal. 

\- Really. You kissed me back to reestablish equilibrium? 

\- Absolutely. For the good of the team. Keeping things balanced between work partners.

\- I’m glad you’re being professional.

\- Always. 

\- You should work for human resources. “Establishing and preserving balanced relationships between CIA employees.”

\- Sounds like a great job. I’ll apply.

They fall silent – they’re stumped, Carrie thinks. If they want to go farther, someone has to take the first step. She doesn’t mind doing it. If she wants to win the game (and she does) she has to keep it going. And also, she’s curious, very curious, to see more. To break Quinn’s facade.

\- But you’re wrong, she objects. We’re not at equilibrium. I kissed you once. You kissed me twice.

He stares at her, and she could swear that she sees a fleeting wave of emotion in his eyes. Hope? Uncertainty? Then the glimmer vanishes and Quinn’s back on neutral, so Carrie smiles, she grabs her handbag and says:

\- Back in a minute.

Once in the Ladies' Room Carrie puts her bag on the side of lavatory and just stares at the mirror, thinking.  
She’s going to redo her makeup, sure, but there’s also something going on with her that she has to analyze. There is a sort of ball in her belly. A psychological ball (yes, it makes no sense), and it’s warm, and… well, it’s a good ball. Fuck, she realizes. She likes the fact that Quinn likes her. It’s strange; it’s a calm, hopeful sensation, something she hasn’t felt for a very long time. Nothing like the dark, passionate waters she treaded on with Brody. 

A few years ago, her psychoanalyst told her that there were feelings you could only recognize if you were in a good place. Is that’s what’s happening now? She’s noticing Quinn because she’s in a good place, and she wouldn’t even have “seen” him if things had taken a darker turn?

Maybe. Carrie reapplies her lipstick carefully. Let’s not get carried away. Quinn may have a thing for her, but he’s still a smug bastard, a cocky son of a bitch, and it would be a really bad idea to lose the upper hand.

She gets back to her stool, sits down, leans towards him and kisses him briefly. 

\- There, she says, proudly. _Now_ we’re equal.

\- Can we have two more glasses of these? Quinn asks, gesturing toward the whisky bottle, and this time Sam doesn’t object. 

Quinn drinks his new whisky in one gulp, or so it seems, then he turns to her and makes a face.

\- Yeah. This was a mediocre kiss, if you don’t mind me saying.

See? He is a smug bastard. But Carrie’s not taking the bait. Chances are, Quinn also took time to think and regroup, and he has reached the same conclusion than she has: let’s not lose the upper hand. She smiles seductively.

\- You’re right, it was mediocre. That’s because it was exactly like your second kiss. To preserve your precious equilibrium.

\- That can’t be true, Quinn protests. I’m an excellent kisser.

\- Really? You seem quite the cold fish to me. Sam, can we have two more? No, you know what? Just leave the bottle. (Sam complies, and Carrie turns to Quinn again.) Do you even get girls? Or are you living like a monk or something?

He looks at her, a little stunned. 

\- I get girls. I get girls all the fucking time. I mean, I get girls whenever I want to.

\- I’m so sorry, Carries says sweetly. I just can’t picture it. Do you, like, walk to women and just stare at them silently? And wait for them to just panic and give you their phone numbers?

Quinn has regained his composure now. So he slowly looks around – he scans the perimeter – then he answers, with this pretentious frat boy expression it seems he can muster at will:

\- I see six pretty girls in this establishment right now – not counting you, of course. I could get the phone number of any of them in less than five minutes. In fact, a… colleague and I, one night, we did a contest in a Texan bar. Who could get the more phone numbers in two hours. I got eighteen.

\- Eighteen? That’s a lie.

\- Well, I can’t give you the guy’s contact, for national security reasons, but the story is true. 

\- Ok, Carrie says, after a sip of whisky. Prove it. Go for it.

\- Go for what?

She drinks again.

\- Choose one of those girls, and get her phone number in less than five minutes.

Quinn looks at her like she’s crazy.

\- I’m trying to get you to sleep with me tonight, Carrie. Why on earth would I go hit on another girl?

\- You're trying to get me to sleep with you?

\- Well, yeah. Isn’t that what you’re doing too? With the kissing and the… lipstick?

\- Maybe. (She smiles mysteriously.) I guess it depends if you get that phone number.

\- Why… What the hell is the logic behind that?

Carrie shrugs happily.

\- I don’t know. I guess I’m kind of drunk, and also I want to see you in action.

\- For fuck sake. (Quinn shakes his head, before finishing his glass.) This was a bad idea. I’m getting drunk too. Ok. Fine. See that brunette? With the red scarf? 

He smiles, a very cocky smile, and actually slaps Carrie’s thigh before standing up.

\- You want it, you’re going to get it. I mean, seeing me in action, of course. 

\- Of course. I’m timing it! Carrie announces, waving her phone, while he walks away.

\- Knock yourself out!

And then… well, it’s impressive, really. The brunette is sitting with four of her friends, all girls, so Quinn takes a bottle of champagne from the bar (“Put it on my tab”, he says to Sam) and then he goes to the table, smile to all the girls, and says… something, Carrie can’t hear, but presumably he’s offering them the bottle. Then Quinn sits near the brunette, but he’s still talking to all of her friends, and he’s smiling and making jokes, and then he begins to talk to the brunette privately, his eyes are shining, he is looking at her with fake admiration and fake seriousness (Carrie knows it’s a sham, but she gets a little jealous anyway, not an unpleasant feeling) and then Quinn gestures toward Carrie and says something apologetic (“I have to get back to my boss, or to my colleague”, Carrie guesses) and he’s asking a question, and yes… the brunette is typing something on her phone, and then he looks at his phone with a smile, and he says good bye, and he walks back to Carrie. 

Carrie stares at him with genuine admiration. Quinn clearly appreciates it, and when he gets back on his stool, he makes a sort of theatrical salute (the brunette is talking with excitation to her friends, so she doesn’t see).

\- Congratulations, says Carrie sincerely. That was good work.

\- It was. So, how long?

\- Three minutes forty five seconds.

\- Right. Beat that, please.

\- Ok, says Carrie. Hey, Sam? (Sam approaches, ready to take a new order.) Wanna fuck tonight? 

\- Er… Ok, says Sam. Sure.

\- Good.

\- I close at 1am.

\- Perfect.

Sam goes away, and Carries turns to Quinn with a victorious look. Quinn takes a new glass of whisky, and drinks. 

\- That is so fucking unfair, he mutters.

Carrie winks at him, then takes the bottle and the two glasses, and moves to a table in a discreet little corner – now that she “asked Sam out”, so to say, she doesn’t want him to listen to her conversation with Quinn.

Quinn follows her.

\- So fucking unfair, he repeats when they sit down, his voice slightly slurred. (But she’s drunker than he is, so really, she can’t judge.) You’re, what, Carrie, like… a seven? On the, you know, one to ten hotness scale? But just because you’re a woman… and, er, blonde…

\- A seven? Are you kidding me? I’m at least a nine!

\- Nah. I’m a nine. But because, again, you’re female, you just have to say two words to the guy and he just falls into your lap, while I have to actually work to… (Quinn gestures in the direction of the pretty brunette, who fortunately can’t hear what he’s saying, but now she and her friends are watching him talk to Carrie with an unhappy look on their face). … I have to work to get her phone number, and I mean she's nice and everything but... Yeah, it is fucking unfair, and the feminist movement should really think about it when they… 

\- I am not a seven!

\- Seven and a half?

\- You think you’re prettier than me?

\- Obviously. But hey, I’ll sleep with you anyway.

\- Such a gentleman.

\- True. You’ll learn to appreciate me.

\- I’m not sure I want to learn anything about you now, Carrie mutters, and you know what, she’s actually offended, for real, who does he think he is, this pretentious asshole?

And she kind of wants to go away, to make a theatrical exit, but she’s… well, she will still have to face him in the morning. And nothing is settled. She kind of hates him now, but she also remembers the way she felt when she realized he was interested, earlier. This… happiness and warmth. That’s rare, that’s very fucking rare – and Quinn sees her hesitating, and it seems his drunkenness just evaporates, just like that.

\- Are you leaving? 

And here it is again, the shadow of uncertainty in his eyes. With a nuance of fear. And Carrie feels it too, the uncertainty, but it’s a delicious sensation, like she doesn’t know what is happening, and she really likes it. And she doesn’t want to play indifferent when she’s not, so she gives him a huge, happy smile, and she says:

\- No.

And Quinn smiles back, a real, sincere smile, and then he takes her hand across the table and yeah, the brunette and her friends are still looking, so he can eat that phone number now, Carrie thinks.

\- Anyway, she says, leaning toward Quinn, why would I leave when I’m winning the game? I mean, I lost points when you insulted my… beauty, but I won them all back when you showed you were worried I was gonna leave.

Quinn frowns.

\- There’s a game? 

\- Of course there’s a game. Seduction is always a game.

\- Why was I not informed? I want the rules book.

\- Oh come on, you know the rules. Everybody knows the rules of the seduction game! You gain points when you have the advantage, you lose points… when you don’t. And you, sir, are losing.

\- Absolutely not. I refuse to admit defeat at a game I didn’t know I was playing, the rules of which are not clearly defined.

\- Did you really go to Harvard? Carrie asks suddenly. Is Peter Quinn your real name?

He’s a little taken aback.

\- Do I lose points if I answer?

\- No. The game has nothing to do with information. It is emotional only. You know – like in a negotiation, they say the one who doesn’t care has all the advantage – and the one who wants it the most loses. It’s the same here. 

\- I did go to Harvard, and my name is not Peter Quinn. And, you kissed me first. So by these… so called rules… Doesn’t that earn me, like, major points? 

\- Ok, Carrie says, politely – let’s say I don’t win. Let’s say it’s a draw.

But she doesn’t think it’s a draw at all. She can’t really tell Quinn: “I win because I figured out that you had a crush on me for all these months", or, "You lose because you want it more", but that’s what she’s thinking. 

_I win I win I win._

Well, game over, time to move to next level – ok, the metaphor doesn’t really work, but you get the idea. 

\- So, wanna get out of here? she says, smiling. (Quinn hesitates.) To my place, she adds, to be sure he gets it.

And then that fucker answers:

\- No. Not yet. (Carrie looks surprised, and Quinn adds:) I have to know a few things first.

She can’t believe it.

\- I’m sorry?

\- Are you over Brody? 

\- What? (Carrie’s getting a little angry again.) What does that has to do with anything?

\- Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to have sex if you’re thinking about another guy?

She looks at him, aghast – she has to what - meet requirements? Before he fucking deigns to sleep with her? 

\- I’m out of here, she says, standing up – furious.

Quinn catches her wrists – with his two hands, in an iron grip – and she can’t leave.

\- Let me go, Carrie says, between her teeth.

\- I will. But I want one minute first. I talk, you listen, for one minute. And then you can go if you want. Do we have a deal?

She doesn’t answer, but she sits down, and he lets go of her wrists.

\- One minute, she seethes.

\- The thing is…, Quinn starts. No. Forget the thing. Ok. Listen. (He talks very seriously, it’s like he’s never been drunk, like he didn’t even have a drop of alcohol.) I don’t want you to be thinking about Brody if we fuck… Because… well, because it’s... normal? To want the girl you’re with to be into you – how exactly can you be mad about that, Carrie? (Carrie opens her mouth, closes it, she doesn’t really know how to answer.) Also, I don’t want this to be a one night stand. (Quinn hesitates.) Because that would be bad… for the team.

\- For the team?

\- Yeah. We have a good thing going, you and me, at work. So what, we fuck once, we feel awkward about it the next day, our professional relationship becomes strained… and all that for a couple of hours of sex? I don’t want that. I want it to be worth it. Worth the risk.

\- I’ve done it before, Carrie mutters, just to hurt him. I just ignore the guy afterwards, no problem at all.

\- I’d rather not be ignored. So if we sleep together, I want you to give this – to give us – a real chance. (Quinn smiles, and raises up an eyebrow.) Am I losing the game now?

\- You’ve lost it, like, eons ego, Carrie grumbles.

The problem is that even if she’s winning (cause she is – I mean, what does he want now – a relationship?) it doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like she’s being pressured, and she doesn’t like it, but she also – I don’t know, maybe she appreciates Quinn’s frankness, and she – she should just leave, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to stay.

But she’s still mad.

\- That’s it? Minute’s over?

\- I think so, Quinn answers, slowly.

Carrie stays. But yeah, she’s still furious. And Quinn can see it, she knows he can. And he’s worried, it’s clear, he sips his drink to give himself a countenance, but he’s very worried. And Carrie doesn’t politely pretend not to see it, she just stares at him pitilessly.

And suddenly Sam appears.

\- Hey, Carrie, he says. So, are we still on for tonight? Cause I’m going to close soon and I’m thinking we could go to my friend Bert's apartment, cause he has, like, a bed, and…

\- If you don't fuck off, Sam, Quinn answers, I will kill you.

And he just looks at Sam – and yeah – Sam just, like, vanishes. It’s really funny. It shouldn’t be funny, how Quinn scares people, or bosses people around, but Carrie loves it. Because she is not scared of him, never was, she never obeyed his orders anyway – even when he was her boss – and that’s why she always finds it hilarious when he terrorizes other people. And she thinks Quinn likes it – that she’s never afraid of him.

\- You know, she whispers, maybe I want to fuck Sam tonight.

\- Do you?

\- I mean, come on! Bert has a bed! In his apartment! 

They laugh, and Quinn relaxes visibly, there’s even something like affection showing in his eyes, and Carrie can’t remember why she was so angry before (by the way, the brunette and her friends? Vanished too.)

\- Ok, she starts, her voice calm, serious. About what you said.

\- Yes.

\- First, I am over Brody. But tell me, Quinn… What is “the thing?”

\- What?

\- Twice, this evening, you began to say “The thing is…” And then you changed the subject. So, what is “the thing”?

\- The thing is not important, says Quinn, cautiously. Tell me what you think about… the rest.

\- About your proposition to take things seriously…? Because we don’t want to spoil our professional relationship for just a night of wild sex…?

\- I like it when you say “wild sex”. But yes. What do you think?

Carrie hesitates.

\- It makes sense. It’s reasonable.

\- But?

\- But… How can I guarantee anything? How can we guarantee it won’t be a one night stand? Maybe we’ll be tired of each other by tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll hate you. Maybe you’ll hate me.

\- Everything is possible, says Quinn, slowly. But…

\- Maybe you’re a lousy lay and I won’t want to repeat the experience.

\- What? I’m not a lousy lay.

\- I’m just saying, we don’t know…

\- I am not a lousy lay. I’m an excellent lay. And I’ll prove it to you right now.

\- What? 

Quinn gestures toward the bathroom. 

\- Let’s go, right now.

\- Are you fucking serious?

Quinn raises his eyebrows. He is clearly amused by the situation, but there’s also real challenge in his eyes.

\- Yes. I am fucking serious. I mean, you’re right. It’s a very good point. Sex is important in the equation. We have to test if we’re sexually compatible before trying anything. So… let’s test it.

\- In the… bathroom? Now?

\- In the ladies bathroom. It’s nicer. What, you’ve never done this?

\- Of course I have! Carrie protests. (Does he think he can outdo her or something?) But… just to be clear… You want us to have sex to prove that it’s ok for us to have sex.

\- Yes. Exactly. I want us to test our sexual chemistry to know if it’s worth starting something between us. And there’s only one way, really, to test sexual chemistry. 

Quinn stands up. 

\- So? 

Carrie stands up too.

\- You’re bluffing.

\- Let’s see. 

He takes his hand and leads her towards the bathroom. Sam is watching them, as are the last three clients. 

There’s a first door, then a corridor, then the two doors, Quinn opens the door to the Ladies Room. Carrie enters proudly (she will not back down first). 

Quinn closes the door behind them. 

Then they stare at each other, a little embarrassed. Carrie crosses her arms, and it’s her turn to give him a challenging look.

\- So?

So… He kisses her. 

Yeah. This is very different from the friendly pecks from sooner this evening. Suddenly they’re kissing everywhere in the bathroom, bumping against the walls and everything, Carrie can’t catch her breath, they just don’t stop, and it’s fiery and kind of wild, and it lasts for a long time, and suddenly Quinn seems to remember he’s on a mission, and he does take a breath, and begins to unbutton her shirt, and Carrie backs away and cries:

\- Ok, ok! I fold! You win!

Quinn stops, and studies her.

\- Why? he asks, in a very calm voice, which is remarkable considering the intensity of their previous activity.

\- Because, Carrie says. (She’s kind of embarrassed, but she wants to be honest.) Because I don’t want to have sex in the bathroom. With you, I mean. I mean… not the first time. I mean, sexual chemistry is established, ok? Do we agree?

Quinn smiles.

\- I'd say.

\- So, let’s do this right. In a bedroom, or at least, you know, somewhere with a bed. I mean, at least the first time.

The truth is – but Carrie can’t say it aloud - she doesn’t want to repeat the relationship she had with Brody. Like, when she did it with him in the parking lot, and yeah, the sex was great and twisted and glorious, but it was – she just doesn’t want to go down that road again. She wants to take her time (the first time). She wants things to be different.

\- Excuse me but... can you say it again? Quinn asks.

\- Say what? 

\- That thing you said.

\- That I don’t want to have sex in the bathroom? 

He smirks.

\- No, the thing before.

\- What? (She's incredulous.) That you win? 

\- Yes. Can you please repeat it? Because sometimes I’m a little hard of hearing, and... So… I win? That's what I heard, right? That's what you said? I win?

\- You win the bathroom sex incident, Quinn, says Carrie, laughing. You don’t win… the evening.

\- Who wins the evening?

\- I don’t know yet.

\- Ok.

He takes her in his arms, and they kiss again, and it’s just tender and slow and wonderful. Then they stay silent for a moment, just holding each other tight, in each others arms, in the stupid corner of the stupid ladies room of this stupid bar.

\- The thing is, Quinn says, slowly. The thing is… I really like you.

She wins. She so wins. She like, wins all the gold medals of the fucking Olympics, he so loses this game that he’s not even allowed to enter the fucking stadium. 

Then she answers:

\- Yeah, I think I might really like you too.

And just likes that, Carrie loses all her chips. (Sorry about the mixed metaphors).

Damn. Why did she say that? She didn’t mean to say that. But it is true, even if she realizes it only now. What on earth is she getting into?

\- I'm glad, Quinn answers, in a very low voice. 

There's a pause.

\- But now, we’ll never know who really won the game, she finally says.

He strokes her hair.

\- I think, he whispers, it’s one of those games where we can both win.

 

(The end.)


	2. The one with the end of the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for rape, death, and things being generally pretty bleak.
> 
> (Frannie doesn't exist in this universe.)

\- She’s bipolar, says a voice in a military complex, somewhere. And he’s suicidal. They shouldn’t pose any problem, really.

 

** 

But they do. They are hidden in the mountains, and they are the terrorists, now, if you see it from the point of view of the invaders. They blow up towers of control, communication centers, trucks full of military equipment, they murder every enemy soldier they can find, no rules of war, no Geneva Convention. It’s basic resistance, like in any occupied country, and there are plenty other people like them, hiding and fighting as they can, but those people are generally not ex-CIA agents. 

So, yeah. They pose problem.

Quinn enters what they call the bathroom, which is really just another part of the cave, but it’s well equipped, there are showers, lavatories, mirrors, shelves, and they stole towels somewhere – but can you really say you “stole” something when the city’s abandoned and corpses litter the pavement? The whole complex, a network of connected caves, is hidden somewhere in the Rockies. It was owned by a survivalist, which is exactly what’s needed now. A place to survive. Anyway, he enters without knocking (there’s no door, so), he gets his clothes off before entering the shower and then he realizes that Carrie is naked, at the other end of the bathroom, standing up in front of the mirror.

\- Sorry, he says, not looking at her.

It’s not a big deal, really. They’ve been doing this together for eight months – hiding and killing and putting bombs in strategic places, and they have lived in holes much worse than this one, so yeah, they’ve seen each other naked plenty of times. He wouldn’t even register the incident if Carrie hadn’t looked kind of panicked and covered herself quickly with the big towel. Then she opens the water tap to give herself a countenance, but too late.

Now he’s staring at her, brows furrowed. Carrie turns off the water.

\- Lose the towel, he says.

\- No.

Quinn walks to her and just rips the towel off.

She has bruises everywhere on her body. Especially on her thighs. This is very fresh – yesterday, he realizes, it has to have happened yesterday. They worked separately for most of their self-imposed mission. Carrie’s job was to enter the Center and steal one of the hard drives and a big bunch of grenades, Quinn’s job was to blow up two trucks transporting enemy officers. Quinn was back on time, with the car, Carrie was five minutes late and he had began to worry, but then she appeared at the door with the hard drive and the bag, and yeah she looked a little shocked and there was blood on her face and shirt but really, just a normal fucking Tuesday, and alarms were screaming and people were shouting so she just jumped in the car and he drove away without asking questions. 

And, now, they’re looking at each other, in this bathroom made of black stone. Both naked, and Carrie with all the bruises.

\- Who? he asks.

\- Three of them, she says. I killed them all. 

\- In the center?

\- Yes. I need… to find a pharmacy. Quickly. For the morning after pill. 

\- Ok.

It shouldn’t be difficult. The western part of the US is a wasteland, as is a huge part of Europe. More than eight hundred millions of dead worldwide, they say, and the east coast is run over by refugees. Carrie thinks about Maggie and the girls all the time. If they are still alive, if they’re together, if they even have food. But, yes. There should be a lot of medicine lying around in those little deserted mountain towns.

They’re still looking at each other. Then Quinn says:

\- Carrie, we have to stop.

\- Stop what?

\- What we’re doing here. 

She shrugs, already angry.

\- You’re only saying that because I’ve been raped. So what? You’ve been shot twice, and we didn’t stop.

\- I’m not saying this because you've been raped, I'm saying this because you’re going to die. We’re both going to die.

She frowns, but Quinn continues:

\- You’re not trained for this. I am trained for this and it’s already taking its toll on me – I’m tired, I’m slipping, missing shots. You got caught – I suppose if they didn’t stop to rape you first, you’d be dead, right? Your hands are shaking most of the time. None of us is sleeping, really. We have to stop. We’re not doing a difference anyway. And all the people we knew are dead.

Not Maggie and the girls, Carrie thinks. Maybe not. There’s still a chance. But yeah, she’s never going to see them again. 

Carrie shakes her head, she doesn’t look mad anymore, she just looks so sad.

\- Where… where would we even go? 

\- South America.

\- It’s the same hell there.

\- Not, it’s not. Yes, there are tons of refugees and… famine, but – we are armed. Very much armed, in fact. We’d survive. We escape this death trap, we drive south, with the guns, and when we’re in Mexico we steal a truck, stock it with munitions and food… 

\- Where do we find the food?

\- We take it. From other people. That’s what the guns are for. Then we just drive south again till we can see the South Pole from the coast of Chile. And we just settle there, and wait.

\- For the end the world?

\- This is not the end of the world, Carrie. Just the end of ours. Humanity has seen world wars before, and survived. In ten, twenty years – things will be back to normal. Maybe not here, though.

\- Gee. I can’t wait. (She looks at him.) Why exactly are we having this conversation naked?

Quinn chuckles.

\- I don’t know. Sorry. 

He takes his shower and gets dressed, she does the same thing, then they go hunting for the morning after pill – they find plenty in the ruins of a warehouse, it seems this is not what people steal first. Carrie takes it on the premises, with a warm unopened Coca bottle which she finds on the floor. Quinn forages in the medicine, looking for antibiotics, pain killers – there’s not much left but he finds some in crates in the back. Carrie has already everything she need for her treatment. It seems antipsychotic medicine is also not what looters look for first.

Then they go back home – to the cave – she makes coffee, he cooks something with lentils. The cave kitchen is really great… again, thank God for survivalists. This one must have been very rich. This is a state of the art installation – I mean, if you like living in caves. 

It seems the survivalist didn’t survive though. He’s not here anyway.

She sips coffee, she watches him. She puts the mug back on the counter. 

\- We can’t go to Chile.

\- Why?

\- It would be desertion.

\- Desertion? (He laughs.) Who is going to court-martial us?

\- Nobody, but it still is.

He leaves the lentils to their fate and turns to her.

\- We are making a difference, she explains. It’s just a negative difference, so it’s more difficult to estimate. Each time we blow up a truck full of munitions, someone who fights for our side doesn’t die. Each time we derail a convoy, or we kill an officer, a refugee camp is not being bombarded. We can’t see it, because you can’t see what’s not happening. But it’s not happening thanks to us.

\- This would have been convincing six months ago. But now…? Who’s fighting anymore? And those refugees we hypothetically saved are going to starve three weeks after anyway.

\- It’s still three weeks. We’re soldiers, Carrie says. If we die doing this, then we die doing this.

There’s a silence, and then he says:

\- Yeah, ok.

But there’s something else. She knows it. Quinn’s still staring, he’s still thinking and she’s getting scared. When he speaks, she knows she’s right to be afraid.

\- I’m a soldier, he says. You’re not.

\- I’m not leaving, Carrie breathes.

She’s whispering because she’s terrified – she’s reading him – she’s reading his thoughts right now, they’re obvious and she backs away from him.

\- Don’t do it.

\- What? 

The problem is, the innocent “What?” doesn’t match his face. Carrie backs away again.

\- Don’t do it, Quinn, just don’t.

\- What are you talking about?

\- You’re going to… throw me away. You’re going to incapacitate me or drug me or I don’t know what and I will wake up alone in a car hundreds of miles from here, and you will have disappeared, thinking you’re saving me, you will go on doing this on your own just abandoning me…

He takes a step forward and she actually jumps backwards with a little yelp and she dives in the direction of a bag and suddenly she has a gun in hand and she’s pointing it at him.

\- Don’t you fucking move.

\- Oh my God Carrie! Are you fucking crazy? I’m getting coffee.

\- I can’t fight you, Quinn, she says – still pointing the gun. I’ll shoot. One step, and I’ll shoot. 

\- Carrie, calm down. I am getting coffee. See? This is a mug. This is a pot. I don’t know what paranoid delusion you’re under right now, but look? This is me, pouring coffee.

She believes him for a fraction of a second – or maybe she doesn’t, but she still wonders for a moment, and she lowers her guard so slightly – and of course that’s when he makes his move. She doesn’t even see him, he must have leaped, like a panther, because suddenly she has no gun in hand and she feels his grip on her right wrist and his other hand closing on her throat but she reacts in time – yes, she made a mistake, but she was still tense and ready and she twists, she plunges, she hits him in the face and she runs – toward the other room (the other cave) because she knows there are weapons there too, she takes another gun and turns around and point – and he’s nowhere to be seen.

\- Fuck!

She slowly turns around, gun still pointed – staying the farthest possible from the walls and the shadows – this complex is a fucking labyrinth, passages everywhere, black fucking stone, and she can’t breathe – she sees something moving and she – no, she doesn’t shoot, afraid of missing him, afraid of hitting him.

But anyway, she was mistaken – there’s nobody there. She turns around again, slowly, and she thinks she hears something near the southern exit of the room.

\- Quinn?

Nothing, but she’s sure he’s there, and suddenly she’s terrified, and she backs away slowly, and that’s when he catches her from behind, put his arms around her throat and begins to choke her. 

She struggles like madly, yelling and shouting and they bump on the southern wall, but he’s not letting go, and she knows she’s lost, she’s going to lose consciousness and he’s going to inject her with something and she will wake up in the fucking desert and she’s still fighting, but she begins to beg. “Don’t do it, please, Quinn, don’t do it, don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone, please, please, I can’t make it without you, don’t, please, just don’t, don’t”, and then she loses consciousness.

When she wakes up, she’s still there. They haven’t moved. He has just slid down, so he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, still holding her. Except his arms are not around her throat anymore, they’re around her waist.

She doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything. They both have tears in their eyes.

\- I love you, he finally whispers.

She takes his hands and holds tight. They don’t move for a very long time.

 

**

It’s seven months later, and he’s been shot. Again. It’s not that serious, but it is serious enough that they’re taking a few weeks unpaid leave (that what Carries calls it) from fucking warfare. He’s lying on the mattress on the floor, near the kitchen, and she’s lying in his arms, her head on his left shoulder – the one that didn’t take three bullets recently. They’re together now, and he absently caresses her back.

\- You know, he says, in a low voice, I’m not having such a bad time, really – with you, here, at the end of the world.

\- Yeah?

\- We could just stay in these caves forever. Never go out again.

She asks:

\- What happens when we’re out of beans? 

\- We die. 

\- Isn’t starving rather unpleasant?

He shrugs – before realizing it’s a really bad idea. 

\- There are worse ways to go. 

Sometimes they get news of the outside world through radio transmissions. The situation has degenerated drastically. They hear the stories. About the camps, the torture, and the famine, still. Eight hundred millions of casualties now seems grossly underestimated. 

Quinn adds:

\- Besides, when starving does become too unpleasant, we can just put a bullet through our brains.

\- That’s cheerful.

\- Carrie, he says, and his voice is serious, focused. The way I see it, we have three options.

\- I’m listening.

\- We go out again. On another mission. We get killed.

\- Okay…

\- Second option. We go out again. On another mission. We get caught. We get tortured, because they think we’re part of a network. They rape and torture you, in front of me, to make me talk. And I will talk – I will say anything, except I have nothing to say. Then they kill me, and they keep you for a few months, a few years, having fun with you, before finally killing you.

She has trouble speaking.

\- Let’s call that Plan B.

\- Third option. We stay here, and eat all the beans. We can last for months. Safe, and together. And then – we die. When we decide it and the way we decide it. 

\- Fuck, she mutters. Aren’t you a big fucking ball of fucking sunshine.

\- Yes. Kiss me.

She does. The she asks:

\- What about Chile?

He thinks for a moment.

\- It’s harder now. 

\- But possible?

\- What about your philosophical thoughts about desertion?

\- We lost, right? I mean, this time, we really lost?

\- Yes.

\- Okay.

She lies down near him again, and they prepare to drift out to sleep.

\- I bet you say this to all the girls, she whispers. Let’s eat beans and kill each other.

\- I’ve had great success with this line.

\- So you are a philanderer. Oh my God, am I the prey of a Lothario? Are you manipulating me? (She gestures between them.) Is this even real?

He holds her closer.

\- You’re funny.

 

**

\- They’re still alive. You told us they wouldn’t pose any problems.

\- I’m going there, she says. I’ll take care of it.

 

**

They go for the fourth option - Chile. 

The famine is worldwide now, the only food left is in military warehouses. So they decide to do one last raid.  
“One last mission. One last raid.”

\- Only two days before retirement, Carrie deadpans. 

They have a deal, if they get caught. But it goes well. They’re efficient, they’re rested, and they really want to live. They get the food, they go back home (to the cave) alive.

Then they decide to do another “one last raid”. A convoy of food and munitions just arrived in a nearby center. It’s too good to pass. They need everything they can get, because we’re seven months later, and everybody will fight for the food. Civilians will be violent. The winter killed everybody who wasn’t.

Maggie and the girls are dead now, Carrie’s sure of it. But still, she wants to live. 

\- Only one day before retirement, she deadpans.

Yes, they do have a deal, if they get caught. But it goes well. They kill the guards with method – people fall around them, silently, like leaves. It’s their last trip back to the car. They are on the roof – they went back for vitamins – when Quinn stops and stares at something in the courtyard below. 

He watches, for a while. Then he begins to run the wrong way. The other way.

Carrie can’t yell – she can’t call him, people would hear – so she just stares at him, aghast, then she tries to catch up, to catch him, to stop him. (The bags of vitamins are long forgotten). Quinn stops, at the other side of the roof. He stares again.

\- It’s her.

Carrie looks.

It is her. She’s the one who started it all. She betrayed everybody, she sold the information, she got the first round of government officials killed. After that things escalated.

They watch. She just got out of the Jeep, she’s in uniform – a colonel? She isn’t even technically a traitor – she was always on their side. She was always one of them.

They have a decision to make. It takes time.

\- No way she lives, Carrie finally says. No way.

He stops her before she even gets moving – grabbing her arm.

\- There is another exit.

Carrie nods. They can kill her, and leave. They come up with a plan, fast, and they begin to execute it. Of course things go south. They get separated, people are shouting, alarms are screaming. He’s killing people somewhere, Carrie’s in another part of the complex, she sees the traitor (technically not a traitor) running to safety in the company of two soldiers.

Carrie kills the two soldiers. The traitor barricades herself in the office. Carrie’s out of bullets. She breaks the glass door, and she has to stab the traitor in the face with a piece of glass seventeen times before the bitch actually croaks. There’s blood fucking everywhere. Carrie has even trouble seeing because her eyelids are covered with blood.

Quinn hears:

\- We caught her!

He begins to run.

They are dragging Carrie through the courtyard. There are too many of them – that’s why they have the deal. She sees him, it’s like everything else is on pause, and he raises his gun, and the world is silent, people shouting orders, the alarms – just silence. He cannot miss. She’s looking at him, pleading, it’s the more important shot of his life. The universe is still silent, he gets her right between the eyes, she falls like a leave, he doesn’t even think, doesn’t even interrupt his gesture, he just puts the gun on his head and blows his brains out.


	3. The one with all the "What? No."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending for Season Five.
> 
> (Very short and very very silly.)

They’re both back in the US now, he’s been here for a month, she arrived three days ago. She knocks at his apartment’s door, he opens, says “Come in”, doesn’t even ask why she’s here or how she found his address, he just begins to rant.

\- Do you believe these fuckers? I’m not a fucking political analyst! I’m not an analyst at all, really, except apparently now I am, because – “Your face was on national television!”… I mean, whatever – they keep repeating the same fucking thing, and even Adal is not listening - I was just on the phone with him, and… shit!

\- Hi, Quinn, Carrie says. 

She seems tense. Quinn doesn’t even register the interruption.

\- I should just… quit, you know. I should just quit the fucking CIA. I should just become… a fucking sailor or something. A lumberjack. Or a plumber.

\- Sure. I just came by to see if I could… I just came by to invite you… to dinner, Carrie says.

\- What? No. I’m not hungry. I can’t believe that asshole. Trying to get me to accept that stupid position… under the pretext that “I had a bad year”… yeah, right, I had a bad fucking year. I had a few bad fucking years, even. So what?

Carrie waits for him to finish his rant.

\- You’re not hungry, ok... But… I mean… It doesn’t have to be tonight. It could be tonight, but it could also be another night.

\- What?

\- The dinner.

He stops and looks at her.

\- What dinner?

Carrie sighs. Then she decides to just go for it.

\- I want to ask you out. For dinner, Quinn. On a date. Italian, maybe.

\- What? No. I’m not going on a date with you.

She can’t help laughing.

\- Wow. You sure know how to let a girl down easy.

Quinn seems to focus at least partly on the conversation.

\- Sorry. I’m in a bad mood.

\- Really?

\- You want to buy me dinner? Why? 

Carrie looks at him, shakes her head, kind of incredulous.

\- This is so not how I imagined this conversation going. 

\- Is this about thanking me for when I helped you? Cause you got me out of the gas chamber. We’re equal. We’re fine. Just dandy.

\- It’s not… 

\- I don’t need your fucking dinner.

\- Ok, she whispers.

Well. Quick and painless. Except, not painless. They haven’t seen each other since the hospital in Berlin. Then Quinn was shipped back to the US, Carrie broke up with Jonas, they were already broken up, but they did it right, this time. They had long conversations, affectionate and respectful, exactly the opposite of what’s happening here. And then, every fucking damn day, she has been thinking about Quinn. About how they missed each other two years ago. And how, maybe, now…

Or, you know, maybe not.

\- Ok, she repeats.

Then, nothing. She’s a little stunned. She even thinks she’s close to tears, as crazy as it sounds, so she does what everybody has been doing in this situation since the middle-ages: she pretends to look at her phone. She feels Quinn's eyes on her, so she turns back to him and smile.

\- Sorry, I just… I just got… (She vaguely waves at her phone.) I have to run. Sorry. 

\- … Sure. 

He’s still staring.

\- I’m glad that you’re alive, Quinn, she says, looking right back at him, hoping her eyes are not shining too much. Good night.

And just like that she’s gone. Quinn stays alone, standing in the middle of his living room. 

Wondering what the hell just happened.

**

He replays the conversation in his head. She said “date”, but of course she had not really meant, you know. Though, after, she looked… hurt. Deeply hurt. Did he really…. Did she actually ask him on a date? And did he actually say no – and with such brutality?  
Of course not. Of course that’s not what happened. She said “date”, but she didn’t mean, you know.

But…

**

Carrie is in her bed when the phone rings one hour later. She sees his name, she doesn’t answer. Then the phone rings again. And again. And again. 

\- Hey, Quinn, hi! she says, when she finally answers, in her most “I’m very cheerful and very distracted by a LOT of completely fascinating stuff happening around me right now” voice. So sorry! I was busy, I didn’t hear the phone…

\- Let’s have dinner now, he says.

\- What? No. 

\- Why not?

\- I have… other plans. I mean, I’m already having the plans, I mean, I’m having dinner right now. With, someone.

\- Who?

\- A… guy…

\- Where?

\- At the… place… Quinn, I’m busy. 

\- Ditch the guy. Meet me at the italian restaurant we had lunch once, with Saul, the place where they had the atrocious artichoke.

\- No.

\- Why?

\- Because.

\- Because of the guy?

\- There’s no guy, Quinn, I’m home, in bed.

\- I’m coming over.

\- What? No.

\- Why?

\- Fuck you is why. 

\- Carrie, I’m sorry. I was… in a bad mood, as I told you, I mean – it’s complicated being back – Dar Adal is right - It’s been a complicated month – year – you witnessed some of it - I’m sorry. Please come to dinner with me.

\- No. I don’t need you fucking feeling sorry for me. 

\- What? No, Carrie, I…

\- I don’t need your fucking dinner.

\- Ok.

Quinn pauses. He regroups. He decides to use the charm and diplomacy he’s so famous for.

\- Carrie, there’s a bar, two blocks from your house. Meet me there in half an hour. If you don’t, I’ll go to your place, and bang loudly on your door, yelling. If the neighbors call the police, I’ll show my ID and tell everybody you’re the head of a prostitution ring. And then I’ll bang at the door some more. Oh, and I’ll add some pornographic slurs. 

\- Go to hell.

\- Half an hour.

He hangs up.

Fine. Ok. Carrie puts on her worst pair of jeans and her most crumpled stupid beige tee-shirt. He wants to meet her, that's fine, because she has a plan. 

He’s going to be all smug and proud of himself, or, even worse (much worse) he is going to be very nice because he feels bad and he really wants to let her down easy this time. Except he won’t – because the plan is, she’ll be acting cold and aloof. She’s going to be, like: “Date? What date? I just wanted to reconnect professionally, now that we’ll be both be working at Langley again, and also, yes, I wanted to thank you for saving my life, so here, look, I’m paying for the drinks, consider yourself thanked now, bye bye”. (She’s walking to the bar, she’s walking fast because she is mad, she kind of hopes that someone will try to mug her on the way so she can punch them.) No, paying for the drinks, that’s too nice. She’ll just be obnoxious throughout the conversation – oh, and maybe she could flirt with other guys, you know, while Quinn’s trying to talk to her. Yes. Good. And also, maybe she could leave with another guy and fuck him. Right, that’s an excellent idea (except she knows she won’t do it because that was old Carrie and Carrie 2.0 doesn’t do that stuff anymore, but still, let’s pretend she will.) Good. Perfect plan.

Carrie’s almost at the bar, she sees Quinn waiting, standing before the entrance. 

He hasn’t seen her yet.

She slows down. Because… This is not someone who looks smug. This is not someone who looks like he’s going to let down someone else easy. This is someone…

This is someone who looks very, very nervous.

Fuck. Now she’s nervous too. (Cold and aloof, that’s the plan.)

She stops. Then she resumes walking. She walks slowly, because her heart is pounding – she feels her anger disintegrating each step she takes – fuck. She slows down again. Keep to the plan. Keep to the plan. 

He sees her. 

Yeah. This is not… The way he’s looking at her, it’s going to be very difficult to – flirt with other guys, and she wonders if she’s doing it too – if her expression mirrors his, she doesn’t know what’s painted on her face right now but she knows she’s not looking cold and aloof, and suddenly he’s taking a step forward and putting his hands on her face and he’s kissing her, and she’s kissing him back, and everything just... No, you know what? No need for further description. I think we can just end the story here.


	4. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, very short and very silly again. (I'm working on something much longer).
> 
> A beginning, not an ending. Takes place just before Episode 2.04: New Car Smell.

\- … So, yep... That’s Congressman Nicholas Brody, Estes concludes. 

Peter Quinn is not often surprised. But this time…

\- Fuck.

\- Exactly.

A fucking congressman… A traitor, a terrorist, working for Abu-Nazir. A fucking congressman who almost blew up half of the US government.

Damn. Quinn’s assignment is officially to take the head of the task force managing the “Brody situation”, but his real assignment is to kill the guy off, as soon as he ceases to be useful. Good. Excellent, actually. What a fucking monster. Quinn will gladly put two bullets in Brody’s head, one for the assignment, one for pleasure.

\- All right, Estes says, slowly. So, Quinn… You know almost everything now – we've already talked about Saul Berenson – Ah… Carrie Mathison. (He hands Quinn the file.) She’s a slut.

Quinn doesn’t comment, just raises his eyebrows. He looks into the file – the slut’s pretty. The grades, the comments are very contrasted. Half the people she worked with think she’s brilliant, the other half wants her fired.

\- She’s clever, though, Estes explains, and I have to admit – she’s the only one who saw it coming. She told us Brody had been turned and we didn’t believe her – but of course, she was sleeping with the guy… She slept with half of the men in a hundred mile radius, anyway.

Except not with you, huh? Quinn thinks. There’s too much anger in Estes’ voice for him to be uninvolved. Or maybe they slept together and she dumped him. Or maybe she cheated on him. Or maybe he couldn’t get it up. 

\- All right, Quinn says in a noncommittal tone. Understood. Carrie Mathison.

Blonde, clever, slutty. Like – the perfect woman. And he has to get the world rid of a really, really bad guy. He loves this assignment already.

\- Berenson and Mathison have a special relationship, Estes adds.

\- She’s sleeping with him too?

Estes actually takes a second or two to ponder the possibility.

\- Non, I really don’t think so. It’s more a mentor/apprentice kind of thing.

\- Mathison’s been close to Brody – should I kill her too is she poses a problem?

Quinn knows what the answer is, but he wants to rattle Estes’ cage.

\- No, of course not! Estes says, a little too quickly. She’s one of us, even if she is – of course we don’t want to kill her. 

Yep, something happened there, definitely.

\- Ok. 

Quinn smiles politely, they exchange pleasantries and good-byes, Estes leaves, Quinn begins to pick up the folders – he’s going to his temporary office to study them again. 

He’s in a pretty good mood, suddenly. So pretty blond Carrie Mathison is a slut? This is kind of perfect. Cause Quinn really needs to get laid, like seriously. Like, yesterday. Sure, he’s dating Jenna from ER, but she’s always busy, he’s always busy, and he’s kind of already tired of her anyway. Working in the same operation with a damsel of easy virtue will make things much easier in terms of schedules. 

Also, he doesn't like Estes - never did. So if he can fuck the girl Estes wanted or his ex or whatever and piss the guy off, even better.

Quinn has to admit – he’s intrigued. Dumb sluts are – well, dumb. But in his experience, clever sluts make great lays. They really know their ways around a bedroom. And he is quite experienced himself, thank you very much, so there could be sparks – yes, he can picture a lot of sex in the following months.

And especially – he has a rule. The Rule, the one he lives by. 

No. Fucking. Drama. 

That’s the principle. No… problems, no complications, no feelings, no unnecessary risks, no entanglements. That's why girls who just give it up are perfect for him. Like, this thing with Mathison, it would be just sex (but a lot of it would be perfect) (let’s say, maybe, three times a week? Could be more, if she really begs for it. He could let himself be persuaded.) 

Right. Quinn puts Carrie Mathison’s file on the top of the pile. He’s already making a list of the cheap hotels, near the operation center, where they could, you know, unwind whenever things get stressful. 

He smiles. 

His future really really looks like fun.


	5. The One with all The Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative ending for Season Five.

\- I’m glad to see you are feeling better, Quinn, Saul says. Don’t forget to sign these – a messenger will come tomorrow to get them back, then we will ship everything to Langley – hey, did you get the phone Carrie left for you?

Quinn frowns – he tries to sit up – it’s not an easy task, in this fucking hospital bed, with the pillows always slipping.

\- No. What phone? he manages to say – his voice is hoarse, it hurts when he talks.

\- She left it here, for you. And she also left a message. Fred was supposed to tell you. 

\- Fred didn’t tell me anything, Quinn mutters – trying not to get – trying not to react to all this. 

When he woke up, Carrie was gone, back to the States, to Frannie. That’s good. That’s fine. Everything is just fiiiiine. Except, you know, he’s been gassed, and it hurts – everywhere – but sure, yeah, whatever, everything is just fine. 

God he’s in a bad mood today.

\- Well, I guess… (Saul’s looking around.) I suppose Carrie just wanted to tell you… to get better soon… I wonder where this phone is.

\- Fred’s an ass, Quinn mutters. And he’s fucking incompetent. You know it, everybody knows it – why is he fucking always around?

\- I don’t know, Saul answers, then he opens a drawer. There it is. (He gives the phone to Quinn who just keep it in his hand, staring at it.) Fred is one of these guys, there’s one everywhere, who is incompetent enough to get on everyone’s nerves – but not enough to get fired. 

\- Right, says Quinn. 

There’s eleven texts on that phone. From the same number, an American number. And Saul is still here, blabbering. Quinn answers in a monosyllabic way – Saul doesn’t notice, really, but anyway he has to leave, and soon enough he’s gone.

Eleven texts. Quinn’s still looking at the phone, but he doesn’t get his hopes up. First he’s more of a “getting his hopes down” kind of guy, and anyway (he lies back down on the pillows, with all the fucking tubes and needles following his every movement) – he’s already got more than he thought he ever would… right? In Syria, he thought he would never see her again. And he did. He saved her – she stayed for a while, then she was gone, but it was more than he ever bargained for. Also – Astrid, Saul, Dar Adal gave him the details of the story piece by piece. How Astrid and Carrie found him in the gas chamber. And after that – shenanigans - but at the end Carrie singlehandedly saved the day at the train station, so really – that’s fine… Cause the fact that he saved her indirectly saved all these people. So, good. See? Everything’s just fiiiiine. 

Quinn doesn’t need to read the texts, which are going to be some empty, meaningless good wishes, a variation on “Get better soon”, like Saul said. He doesn’t need to read the texts. 

Next thing he does is reading the texts.

First one:

* Hey Quinn, it’s me, Carrie. I had to get back to Washington to Frannie – when I left, you were still in a coma, but Saul told me you just woke up, so I guess Fred has given you the message by now, or he will soon. I can’t call you, I tried all day, but the fucking rules of this fucking hospital – no phones in the “serious reanimation whatever” service. I yelled and I begged and I threatened but I couldn’t get through, so you know, hide this phone! It’s illegal! Anyway, I’m so, so sorry, I wanted to be here when you woke up, please give me news as soon as you can. Please. *

This was three weeks ago. THREE. FUCKING. WEEKS ago.

Quinn almost murdered Fred twice when they were all working together in Islamabad. He should have. He will. Why didn’t Haqqani and consorts blow his head off? So many good people – slaughtered. And they missed Fred.

Second text. The next day:

* Hey Quinn, Carrie again! I realized you probably can’t move, can’t type, can’t talk. So I’m just going to keep texting you. I just hope you’re feeling better, that you’re not refusing treatment or morphine, I know you, you can be such an ass sometimes. I’m trying to get news – I’m harassing Saul, he’s telling me what he can. Anyway. Get better. I really wanted to talk to you directly. I suppose I will have the opportunity later. *

The next day:

* Hey, guess who this is? Saul tells me Astrid told him that you’re doing great and the doctors are optimistic. By the way did I tell you Astrid and I made friends? She’s really great. And… *

… Quinn keeps reading. There are five long texts in the same tone, Carrie playing cheerful to entertain him. Then the messages get shorter, Carrie’s seems a little embarrassed. The last one says:

* All right, just checking in. I can’t help but think I’m harassing you (after harassing Saul) and Fred hasn’t phoned to give back me the green light, so I’m stopping with the texts now, I swear. Just get better. I’m thinking about you. *

And then, nothing.

Quinn lies down again and thinks. He’s feeling – stuff – emotions – just… yeah. But it will pass soon enough. It’s because he’s in a weakened state, cause there’s nothing in those texts that… There’s nothing special here. It’s all as expected, really. Carrie’s being polite, supportive, a good friend. She feels like she owes him something after he saved his life. Whatever. Anyway. 

Emotions are still… Yeah. 

They will pass.

He doesn’t answer. He should answer. But if he does, then Carrie will send a polite, happy message, an empty cheerful “I’m so glad you’re doing fine!” and then – that will be it. The end. 

Yep. Not answering.

The next day, Fred is here to get the documents – they were supposed to send a messenger, but they sent him – so now, those documents will never make it back to Langley, Quinn guesses. Who cares. Quinn has the file in hand, he’s not giving it to Fred – on purpose.

Talking is difficult. But Quinn tries.

\- Carrie Mathison… left you a message for me. What was it?

\- A message? No she didn’t.

Quinn stays calm. Efficiency first. His throat hurts.

\- Fred. Something about a phone.

\- Oh yeah! You’re right. She left you a phone.

Stay calm.

\- I found it. But there was a message too. You were supposed to tell me something.

\- Doesn’t ring a bell.

\- Fred. Give me the fucking message.

\- I’m not Carrie Mathison’s damn messenger boy, you know. She’s nobody. She’s not even one of us anymore. I have really no reason to do her any favors. She wants to tell you something? She tells you herself.

\- Didn’t she save everybody’s asses a few weeks ago?

\- Oh come on, Peter! Don’t you remember Pakistan? Mathison was a raging bitch. A fucking raging hysterical cunt. Why on earth should we help her now?

Quinn closes his eyes for a few seconds. Then he opens them again.

\- I’m going to get better, he says, slowly. I’m going to get out this bed one day. I will find you, and I will eviscerate you. If you don’t give me that fucking message.

Fred backs away. 

\- You know, it’s true, what they say. You’re a dangerous lunatic.

\- Yes.

\- I don’t… I don’t know… (Fred shrugs, tries to think.) She said she hoped you were going to get better, blah, blah… She wanted to keep in contact.

\- Through the phone?

\- I guess, I don’t know. How should I know? 

\- Was there something about a green light?

\- Oh, yeah. That’s right. She didn’t want to bother you if you didn’t want to - to talk to her, I guess, so I was supposed to give her the green light – to say it was ok for her to keep in contact. To text back and forth.

Quinn gives Fred the documents.

\- Just go away, Fred. Just get the fuck away.

Fred does. As soon as he’s gone, Quinn takes the phone.

* Carrie. It’s me. Sorry. I just got the phone, I just read your texts. *

Send.

Then – a second one.

* Fred didn’t give me the message, the phone… anything. I just found the phone. How are things in Washington? *

Send.

Stop. Quinn puts the phone back in the night table drawer – to force himself to stop. To not be tempted to send anything else. 

Then, nothing.

No fucking answer. He checks, every minute.

It’s too late. Carrie thought he didn’t want to talk to her, so she just threw the phone away, or maybe it’s lying in a drawer somewhere with an empty battery. That is, if it was a second phone? If it’s her normal phone, then maybe she just doesn’t want to answer. 

Quinn has to know. If It was a second phone or not. He can check with Saul – get her contact information, and…

Beeeep.

He almost jumps. 

New text. It’s her. 

* In a meeting. With fucking Lockhart (yeah, I know!). Talk to you soon. *

Ok. His heart is beating – for absolutely no fucking reason. Nothing interesting happened, really. 

He waits. And then, one hour later.

* Quinn, I’m so happy to hear from you. Fucking Fred, right? I was so worried – but Saul gave me news. How do you feel? Hit on any pretty nurse yet? *

Is she kidding?

* Are you kidding? What was the meeting with Lockhart about? *

Send. Then he adds:

* I didn’t even know he was back in play. *

She answers almost right away.

* I didn’t know either. But he is. They’re offering me a post at Langley, if I want to – the position has no name yet, but basically, I’d be supervising a team of analysts – we’d specialize in terrorist threats. *

* What do you think? *

* I’m considering it. I know you’re disapproving. *

Quinn hesitates. Because one, he doesn’t know how to answer (it’s not a question anyway) but also because he has to find something to keep the conversation going.

It’s stupid. It’s irrational. But suddenly, it’s the most important thing in the world, to keep the conversation going. 

* I’m not disapproving.*

Yeah, that’s all he has.

* Quinn. Your turn to talk. How are you feeling? Answer the fucking question. *

* Why do you think I’m disapproving? And I’m fine. *

(He knows why. But again, anything to get the conversation going.)

* Fine. Yeah right. Gotta go. Lockhart’s incoming. Talk to you soon. I want updates. Twice a day at least. Even if it’s only your stupid “I’m fine” or a pornographic joke. I want regular fucking updates. *

* Ok. *

He puts down the phone and lies down. He stays like this for a while, exhausted. Even typing, even straightening up, is exhausting. 

He feels so much better. 

This conversation, it’s like – a lifeline. It’s like – he can picture Carrie there, in Langley, a ball of blonde energy, blazing through the corridors, and also, those texts – they’re the real Carrie. The first eleven messages, she was trying too hard, and he appreciates the effort, but this – now, that’s really Carrie. And she is the one who found a way to keep the conversation going. “I want updates. Twice a day.” She did it effortlessly, because she’s so much better than him at this game - maybe because she doesn’t really care, but you know what – it doesn’t matter. Today, right now, this minute… it doesn’t matter. 

He closes his eyes. She’s saying things in conference rooms, her hair catching the sun. 

He falls asleep.

Beeeep.

He slept for three hours – which is a kind of miracle, because, strangely enough (with the coma and everything) he does not sleep well. He’s haunted by nightmares, there’s constant pain – of course, when he is full of morphine, he does sleep, but he tries to keep it to a minimum. 

Carrie’s text:

* Meetings over. Been a long day. Listen, Quinn, I wanted to tell you in person as soon as I’d be back in Berlin, but it seems I’m stuck here at least for a few weeks with all the briefings. So I’m telling you now – and I’ll tell you again soon, face to face, of course. I want to say thank you. For saving my life. For not killing me. Did you notice – I didn’t even say thank you back then? I’m so sorry. Things were so tense, and then you got shot, and everything. But thank you. *

The fuck? 

“Back in Berlin?” Why on earth would she be coming back in Berlin? Frannie’s in Washington, Carrie’s future job’s in Washington, and of course it hits him right there – Jonas. Her boyfriend. Of course. 

Quinn forgot about Jonas, he actually really, honestly, forgot about him. 

He feels like he’s been slapped, which is ridiculous of course, what does it change – Jonas or no Jonas? It’s not like anything going on. But he does feel like he’s been hit by a truck, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep the conversation going, not anymore.

He’s so tired. 

He doesn’t answer. Thirty minutes pass.

Beeeep.

* I’m sorry, Quinn. I suppose you hated my precedent message. But I just had to say thank you. Feel free to answer with one of the pornographic jokes you’ve been preparing. *

* Is Jonas going to move to the States if you get your new job? I mean, how that’s going to work? *

He knows it’s a bad idea - but he’s been typing and hitting “send” before even realizing it.

A few minutes pass. Then, a few more. Then, fifteen minutes later:

*Where’s my pornographic joke? And you have no intention of answering my heartfelt thanks, I suppose. Also, Jonas is out of the picture. *

Relief is so huge Quinn gets tired again – before realizing it’s not only in his head, it’s not psychological, he is actually tired. Yes, after having slept for three hours. He’s really in a bad shape. But Jonas out of the picture. It’s like – the conversation with Carrie was poisoned… and now it’s not.

His head is hurting, he thinks he’s going dizzy. He has to gather all his strength to send:

* Gotta sleep. Sorry. Preparing jokes for tomorrow. *

He doesn’t see her text before the next morning:

* Get better. *

So why is Carrie coming back to Berlin? he asks himself the next day, drinking hospital coffee, which is – not that bad really. Certainly debriefings again, in the Berlin Station, and the BND and everything. 

Quinn waits all morning – and a big part of the afternoon – before sending an update, because he doesn’t want to seem eager. Also… time difference.

When he sends the text, it’s carefully studied – not the type of things he usually says – but the message has two goals: (1) to be light and fun (2) and, you know. To keep the conversation going.

* I’m all better now. I thought about jokes, didn’t find any, so I’m giving you material, you make your own pornographic little story, and then you send it back me. I’m the one in the hospital: you are supposed to entertain me. These are the words you have to work with: Peanuts. Fred. A cardboard box. A coat rack hanger. Donuts. *

Carrie takes her time answering, but she does.

* I’m not making any pornographic joke with Fred being a character in it. Also, I have meetings, you are the one with nothing to do but breathe: you tell me fucking jokes. Also, everybody’s being so nice to me here at Langley. So respectful – it’s really weird. *

* Hey, you’re a fucking heroin. You went to the tunnel and shot at a train and stopped Sarin gas with your bare hands – from what I heard. *

* Yeah? Well, it’s weird. I need people insulting me to function. *

* Happy to oblige. Fuck you, Carrie. What the fuck are you doing, Carrie? Obey the fucking orders, Carrie. *

* Yes. Thank you. Please do that once a day. And don’t forget the two updates. *

The conversation stops there, or at least Quinn doesn’t answer – again, he doesn’t want to seem eager.

And he’s getting uneasy. What the fuck is Carrie doing? 

I mean, on paper – (on screen?) this is not suspicious. They’re just talking, it’s friendly, it’s fun. Except that they never interacted like this – never. They’ve never be friendly and fun. And now, two updates and one insult a day – of course Quinn knows it’s a joke, but it seems she’s really doing her best to keep a daily connection, even more than daily, and – 

Stop. God, Stop. 

Fucking stop. He’s getting crazy ideas again. Yeah, really, he should stop having this “conversation” altogether – he’s so fucking crazy, I mean, Carrie’s making like, two jokes, and already he’s thinking – already he’s hoping - that’s why he left. For Syria. To be faraway. To not… be crazy.

He should stop texting right now, but her presence – even only in writing - it’s like a drug. And it’s way worse than morphine.

Just while I’m in the hospital, he thinks. I’ll just talk to her during… just – helping with the recovery. As soon as I’m out of here, it’s over.

So the texts, this conversation – it goes on for one fucking month. Yeah. Twice a day, sometimes more often, sometimes a lot more often, they have little fun conversations, and I mean entire conversations, not just one text and the answer. Sometimes the back and forth goes on for a good half an hour. It’s not always jokes, Carrie’s keeping him posted on what she’s doing, asking advice. He’s keeping her posted on stuff that happens in Berlin, Astrid’s giving him news, and he’s getting some visits from guys from the CIA station too, not much, but it happens.

Quinn’s sometimes suspicious. He sometimes thinks Carrie’s doing this on purpose – but… what purpose? Also, the truth is – he’s too tired to care, too weak to resist. Yes, this is dangerous, unhealthy. But his future is a black wall, with monsters looming behind it, and this is the only light.

Anyway. 

One fucking month of texts.

He’s drowning, he knows that. All these messages, all this words - it’s like she’s here with him – he dreams of her, he hears her voice, her laugh – except he never does, because it’s only texts, they don’t use the phone. They could – she could call, but none of them suggest it. He certainly doesn’t want to. First, his voice is still shot. Also, their easy banter, the closeness, it’s because they’re texting. The anonymity of the written word. It’s easier.

And then, one day.

* Hey, Quinn, it’s been a while since I got a good insult. It was supposed to be once a day, right? And now that I have accepted the job – they’re even more polite. People are too pleasant, it’s really weird, do something, quickly. *

* Well, I don’t abide by his opinion, but Fred told me recently you were a raging bitch. And a – I don’t exactly remember his exact - and sophisticated – choice of words, but I think there was something about a hysterical cunt.*

*Aw. Thank you. I’m going to kill Fred. And also, I miss you. It’s true, you know. It’s strange being back on the job without you. I miss someone telling me I’m reckless. I miss your disapproving – and constant - presence.*

He feels sick.

So, she is doing it on purpose. She’s certainly never been beneath that kind of game, and, she knows – she perfectly knows what that’s doing to him – she’s just playing him like a fiddle, for fun, to rattle his cage, he’s so mad, he’s so hurt – but mostly mad – and he doesn’t even stop to think before writing:

* Just go to hell, Carrie. Fuck. Just go to fucking hell.*

Send.

Then he stares at the phone. 

Well, he’s done it. He stopped the conversation. 

So that’s the end, right? Quinn lies down – he stares at the ceiling – he knows this ceiling perfectly, the perfect whiteness of it.  
He’s done the right thing. It’s not a terrible, heart wrenching mistake – cutting his lifeline. He’s still mad. Yes, he’s done the right thing.

He feels even sicker.

**

Carrie’s in an empty conference room when she receives the text.

Of course she’s doing it on purpose. Of course it’s a game. Of course she perfectly knows what she’s doing. 

Or to be exact, she hopes that she knows what she’s doing. 

Because she’s been hoping – since they found him alive in the gas chamber – since she learned that he was making a speedy recovery… Yes, she’s been hoping, but she’s not sure of what he thinks, of what he feels, of what he wants. How could she be? Sure, they kissed, and he asked for a relationship – but it was two years ago, and he left. And since, well, of course, he saved her and tried to drown himself in the river so she could have a life, so yeah – one could say it’s, like, kind of a hint that he may like her – but he was delirious and feverish, and she can’t be sure.

He’s so damn inscrutable, all the time. Wearing this God damn armor of coldness and irony. His texts – fun, and pleasant, but he never gives… anything, so yes. Playing him. Rattling his cage. Poking him, again and again, to get a fucking human reaction. A proof. Something.

* Just go to hell, Carrie. Fuck. Just go to fucking hell. *

All right. Seems she got what she wanted.

Now – now things get interesting. Or more exactly, they get dangerous. For her. 

Because now – she’s taking all the risks.

**

Beeeep.

It’s an hour later. He takes the phone without thinking, he looks at the text without thinking. He shouldn’t have. But he does.

* Do you remember the proposition you made me after my father’s funeral? To start something together? And to quit the CIA together? Well, obviously I’m not quitting the CIA, but if you’re still interested, I’d like to try – the rest. Something with you. A relationship. If you’re interested. *

**

He doesn’t answer for a day. 

A day. Carrie’s going crazy. 

First she waits with anticipation, then she begins to be afraid, and when six hours are gone and there’s no answer, she concludes that no answer is an answer – and a crystal clear one. Then she thinks that maybe it’s payback – for what she’s done. When he was the one to ask and she just drove to Missouri without even deigning to call. If it is payback, there might be hope, maybe he’s just playing with her but no, it would not Quinn’s way, to have revenge on her like this – no, he would just ignore her – which, well… he’s doing, right now.

So it is a no.

And then – that’s it – she’s never going to hear from him again? One day she’ll learn he’s been shipped somewhere and a few years later someone will allude, in the middle of a conversation, to the fact that he’s been killed ten months ago?

Carrie thinks about calling – but she’s too proud – and also maybe she’s respecting his… privacy, decision, something. I mean he has been gassed and he’s stuck in the hospital; he doesn’t need a crazy girl harassing him when he’s made his decision clear, right? But then hours pass again and suddenly pride, and respect, don’t seem so important anymore, and maybe she would have called if the answer hadn’t come, finally.

* Ok. Sure.*

Carrie stares at the phone for a while.

Ok. Sure.

“Ok. Sure.”?

“Ok. Sure.”?? Is he kidding me? 

It’s a good think they’re texting, and that an ocean is separating them, because she would have gone to the hospital and punched him.  
She doesn’t answer for a while – it would have been dangerous. Being a mother, having a normal life, she has learned to control her impulsivity… well, mostly. She has learned to think things through, she’s learned that any rage she feels will eventually wears off, and that’s it’s not a good idea to take life decisions while being very very angry.

So, no answer, and deep fucking breaths.

One hour later she feels rational enough to send:

* You’re an ass. But my proposition still stands. *

He answers almost immediately.

* My acceptance still stands.*

She can’t help laughing, and she feels better. But she doesn’t know what to answer, so she doesn’t.

Time passes. It’s Sunday – a luminous one – she’s home, playing with Frannie, checking her mails, working a little. And, in theory, she know her life just changed drastically – he just said yes. She’s officially in a relationship… but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s feels anticlimactic, it’s like: Ok, that’s done. They’re together. Check. What’s next?

But time keeps passing and thoughts and emotions – like, rearrange in her head. It is a yes. Her heart begins to beat faster. Her imagination runs wild. She’s picturing them together – sex, of course, but not only – in fact, the sexual fantasies are in the minority – it’s more, like, his presence. His voice. Them – walking, having breakfast, stupid little daily scenes – and she can’t focus on anything else – making dinner suddenly seems like a humongous task (so ordering sushi will do just fine - yakitori and rice for Frannie), her hands are trembling, she even has trouble breathing sometimes, she just wants to hear his voice, to hear anything – from him – what is he thinking, right now? What is he feeling? Is he in the same state of mind (emotional fucking turmoil) than she is?

She still doesn’t call. She still doesn’t dare. But hours have passed since their last texts, so she figures it’s fine if she starts things again. 

* So what? Now that it’s settled, we don’t talk anymore? *

A few minutes go by before he answers:

* See, I have this theory.*

* What theory? *

* That you’re not really Carrie Mathison. After all, I have no proof right? We didn’t see each other since I got this phone. So what if the real Carrie is somewhere, completely oblivious to all this, and you’re really… a Russian spy? Playing me? Since the beginning of this… interaction? *

* Ok, but maybe I’m a pretty Russian spy. Playing you. *

* That would indeed make things better. *

* Ok. Proving I’m the real Carrie should not be difficult. Just give me a minute. *

* Da. *

* All right, see, I didn’t even need a minute. There are many things that we did, and nobody else witnessed, right? Like… when we kissed. Near the car. *

* Oh, good try, Natalia. Anybody could have seen that. Any efficient Russian spy with a pair of goggles.*

* All right, well, what about the atrocious artichoke? At the restaurant? *

* Saul was there. Send me a picture of you naked, Natalia. Are you a brunette? Do you have green eyes? Do you come from the cold? *

* What about the time you cut your hand and smeared blood on my face? What about the time we made that video for Frannie? And you told me I had to be dead for her to be safe? Was Natalia there? *

A good five minutes pass. 

* Natalia is resourceful. But fine. I believe you, Carrie. *

After that, they don’t text for a while, and Carrie thinks that she knows, now, in what emotional state he is. Frannie is in bed, thank God, because she really can’t do anything, she’s just picturing him, in his hospital bed, thinking of her. She’s thinking of him thinking of her, and maybe he’s doing the same thing – but opposite – well, you know. Or maybe it’s all in her imagination. Maybe he’s vaguely indifferent, maybe he’s just cool with it, thinking “Sure, boning Carrie, why not?” and she’s the one all in, projecting her emotions on him, while he’s watching German TV, eating hospital spinach and flirting with a witty blond German surgeon. (He likes blonds. Plenty of blonds in Germany.).

Beeeep.

* But maybe you are Carrie Mathison, BUT the Russians still got to you. And they have a gun to your head right now. And they’re making you say those things. *

Quinn’s SO not eating spinach and being vaguely indifferent and just cool with it. He’s SO not just cool with it - at all. And that’s, you know… excellent.

* Yeah, you’re right. Maybe that’s what’s going on. Maybe Allison has a gun to my head. Because, how could I convince you otherwise? If I’ve been compromised… everything that you read here is compromised. *

* Can it be Natalia holding a gun to your head? It’s a sexier picture. Also, I’m getting quite attached to Natalia. I think we can turn her. We can save her. Or, forget Natalia… we can both of us defect to Russia. *

* I’m NOT defecting to Russia. Not after what happened. Besides, if we want to defect together, let’s choose a pleasant country, right? Sweden. Or Italy. I could defect to Italy. By the way, if someone is reading this conversation, it’s a joke. A joke. We’re joking. Please say hi to Roger of the NSA for me. From Carrie Mathison. He’ll know. You owe me lunch, Roger. * 

* I’m not joking, Carrie. I’m defecting to Italy with you, like, today. We could live in Rome. Hi Roger. Who’s Roger? *

* Didn’t you meet Roger? When we were working with Virgil? *

* I don’t remember. *

Carrie’s getting a buzz from this conversation. A happy buzz, difficult to define, just a serene little music playing – in her chest – don’t try to make sense of it. The words he’s using, for example. “I’m defecting with you.” “We”. Sure, they are joking around, but see: they’re writing. They both have the time to choose their words very carefully, and Quinn… he’s always been so very, very prudent.

So.

* Listen, Quinn, I’m trying to get away, to come back to Berlin for a few days. I think I can manage it in three weeks. I’m so sorry it’s taking so long. *

* Why do you want to come back to Berlin? Do they need to debrief you again? Now that you’re a big shot?” *

What on earth? Is the man daft? Does he have brain damage? 

* I’m coming back to see you, Quinn. That was the plan, initially. I wanted to come back to tell you… To ask you… The question, about you and me. The plan was to do it face to face, but… time was passing by, and you were – you are getting better, and I was afraid you’d leave. For a mission to North Korea, or somewhere they don’t have TV. So I had to move fast. Sorry. *

Quinn can’t answer that. 

He cannot, physically, answer that. He cannot pretend, he cannot play cool about this. She wanted to come back to Berlin to see him? It doesn’t… I mean, of course, he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s logical, if she actually... If they actually… But he can’t – see it. She, coming back for him? 

He’s not feeling well. He thinks he has a fever. 

The future is still black. It’s worse, actually. Monsters are getting nearer, metallic teeth of lies, twisted illusions and shattered hopes. Coming back just to see him? That’s not happening. His heart’s beating strangely - arrhythmia – you know, the fever.

Time to lie. 

* I’m always happy to see you, Natalia. Doctor’s coming. Have to hide the phone. *

**

A few day pass, same tone, same kind of texts. Carrie’s a little irritated. God, that man is a fucking robot. In control, all of the fucking time. Has he no heart? No emotions? That’s a rhetorical question, please don’t answer – she knows he does. She knows what he’s done for her, she knows how he feels (well she thinks she does) and yes, ok, they wouldn’t be where they are now if he didn’t… 

It’s just – fuck. She has to use a sledgehammer to get anything from him. Anything.

So, yes, they’re bantering about Natalia when they could talk about what’s happening between them, about the past, about their future. But… ok. All right. Carrie exasperated, but she’s not worried.

She understands – he’s prudent. Wary. She can see why.

It’s fine. 

She’ll get him.

**

Three days later Quinn’s on a plane to Washington. Not his choice. Two unpleasant official guys (FBI?) came in the hospital, and asked him – with, you know, insistence – to come with them – private jet, back to Washington, for a meeting. They won’t talk about the meeting. Except to say that it will be very private (only five people), very exclusive (five Very Very Important People). Quinn gets that it’s about ISIS and Syria and that he won’t even have to talk: he just has to be there. He’s a fucking symbol. He’s the one who was killed on TV (and lived).

Quinn will stay for six hours in Washington, they tell him. He won’t leave the building, and then back to the plane, Germany and the hospital. The doctors say it’s dangerous for Quinn to go. The FBI assholes are – again, very insistent. 

He sends the text from the plane.

* Am on a private jet for Washington. Stays six hours, can’t go anywhere, being shipped back right after. *

When he arrives in the meeting, Carrie’s there.

The very private meeting with five VIP has been cancelled while Quinn was in the air. It’s been replaced by a meeting with at least a hundred (ok, 65) NRIP (Non Really Important Persons). Three experts nobody knows are going to give a conference about The New Threats of Today – not kidding, that’s the title. The two FBI goons that are Quinn’s shadows are furious – two round trips to Germany for nothing – oh yeah, cause they still have to get Quinn back there ASAP after the conference.

Carrie’s already at the table when Quinn sits down – her eyes go wide with surprise – he stares at her – but he only has a few seconds to drink her in because people are sitting down (all 65 of them) and Quinn has just the time to grab a chair that puts him more or less across Carrie, on the other side of that huge, grey table.

The experts are incompetent. This reunion is so totally a patched up thing that they made happen after the cancellation of the real meeting that it’s painful to watch (and hear). But at least Quinn can look at Carrie all he wants (discreetly, not staring) (by the way, you know who is sitting to Quinn’s left? Fred. Yeah.). Carrie tries to steal glances too, but because she’s a little further up she has to find a reason to turn her head back – when she’s out of reasons, she discreetly takes out her phone.

He takes his.

* Didn’t you get my text? * he sends/ * I just received your text * she says (at the same time).

Their phones are on their knees, he’s sure half the room doing it, texting discreetly during a meeting, that’s an art everybody masters now.

* Aren’t these experts awful or what? * she sends/ * You look beautiful. * he says (at the same time).

She blushes – a little. She doesn’t look at him, she puts a strand of hair behind her ear, with a sort of shy smile.

He said it – because it’s true, but also, because he can. Right? He can say these things now. And he wants to see her reaction to them. To – test it. Test the reality of… everything.

Well, the reality is very fucking cute. She still seems embarrassed. It’s endearing.

She answers:

* Whatever. I’m in a fucking grey suit. *

* A pretty fucking grey suit. I’ve always liked women who look professional. *

A few seconds pass. Then she sends:

* Get your clothes off. *

Quinn half scoffs, half laughs – and it’s unfortunate, because he does it in the middle of the experts’ long and horrendous description of Daesh’s crimes – just at the moment one of them is mentioning the systematic rapes of thirteen year old girls. So the expert stops talking – everybody’s staring at Quinn – who doesn’t lose his composure for a second, he just says:

\- Sorry. Fred’s making inappropriate jokes.

So now everybody’s firing daggers at Fred, who stammers his denegation, his boss reprimands him (in front of everybody) and Carrie’s having that huge smile on her face – and yeah, it’s totally worth it. The interminable plane ride, this stupid meeting – all worth it.

* You get your clothes off. I’m the sick one. You’re the pretty girl. * he sends, as soon as it’s safe again.

* Ok. *

He stares at her with disbelief – and very slowly, she gets her jacket off, with a sort of resolute, theatrical way which is very – yes. Interesting. Very… Ok. Quinn shifts a little on his seat. Nobody notices anything.

* Your turn. *

Fine. He gets his jacket off – but he’s clumsy – ok, not actually clumsy, but it’s his turn to be embarrassed and he’s definitely not doing it in the graceful, come hither way that it seems Carrie Mathison is a master of. She’s laughing – silently – but he can see, and hey – he can be sexy! He can be very sexy, but he’s not at his best health wise right now, and there are 63+3 stupid CIA operatives with him in the room and – hey, she’ll see, ok? 

She’ll see.

* Your turn. * he sends, with a challenging look – and she – she unbuttons her shirt. Ok, not really. She unbuttons the first three buttons of her shirt. It’s clever, because the shirt is large enough that it stays more or less into place, and it… seems… yes… she has a white bra anyway, and if someone notices, it can look like the two last buttons have just popped off, it’s not too visible.

* Your turn. *

OK. He can’t do that. His shirt is not large, and yeah – he can’t. She pretends to take something in her jacket, so she’s able to turn his way and she has the challenging look now – but he just shakes his head with a smile and she smiles in return with a “you’re so chicken” expression and they go back to pretending to listen to the idealistic, simplistic, moronic, US centric inane platitudes of the experts. 

Both of them, still smiling.

The meeting lasts for two eternities, but as soon as it’s over Quinn stands up and begins to go round this fucking enormous table to get to Carrie – but everybody’s standing up too, and everybody wants to say something to him (“Glad you’re alive, man.” “So sorry for everything you’ve been through”), people are asking questions, told you, he’s a fucking symbol, so he answers briefly “Thank you, sorry, but I’ve got to talk to…” and he gestures in Carrie’s direction, he’s making progress, she’s trying to get to him too – that’s it, he’s got her, he takes her hand and she takes the other one and he’s stroking her wrist and he’s saying:

\- Ms Mathison, I’ve got to talk to you in private, about the…

\- Yes, absolutely, we do have to…

\- … a very important update, from the BND, I think I really have to brief you alone…

\- Certainly, we at the committee are always are particularly interested in…

\- … we should find an empty briefing room to discuss this essential piece of information…

Carrie’s half laughing, half trying to keep a straight face, he’s dragging her through the crowd, they’re almost through the door when First FBI Goon appears from, like, nowhere.

\- Mr Quinn, the plane is waiting, we have to get back. 

Quinn has discreetly let go of Carrie’s hand.

\- Sorry, I have to brief Ms Mathison about an important matter of BND intelligence.

\- Yeah. No. We’re leaving. 

He turns to search for the other goon; Quinn turns to a guy Carrie doesn’t know.

\- Hey, Matteo. I need you to distract this asshole for a minute. I’ll owe you one.

\- Sure.

Matteo bumps on FBI goon and spills his coffee on him. It’s right out of a TV show, it’s perfect, Quinn and Carrie are already heading for the hills (for the next corridor and then the next empty office), they enter, they close the door, Quinn begins to kiss her immediately - hands in her hair – not even waiting to catch his breath – and it’s a good thing too, because the door opens immediately and Second FBI Goon appears.

\- Mr Quinn, we are leaving.

\- Hi, er, listen. My name is Carrie Mathison – I’m the head of the new IFGT committee – sorry, but I need to keep briefing Mr Quinn about…

\- I hope you don’t brief everybody like that, madam, Second FBI Goon says, looking at her disheveled hair and the three buttons of her opened shirt. Or maybe I do. Anyway, we’re leaving. Now.

\- Listen…

\- That man should be in the hospital, madam. Not banging you against the wall.

Carrie looks at Quinn and maybe sees something he doesn’t feel yet, because she just nods – Quinn leans forward for a last short and passionate good-bye kiss, she’s smiling, and he’s fine too, more than fine, really more than more than more than fine, the trip to the plane seems to be gone in a heartbeat, then he is inside – the plane is in the air – Second FBI Goon is not a bad guy, they chat a little and he does seem to feel really bad they dragged Quinn away from medical care for nothing, and then he suddenly seems really worried and Quinn doesn't understand why. It hits him suddenly – he’s nauseous, he can’t breathe, everything’s spinning – fortunately he’s in a seat, safety belt on. 

\- Are you ok? Second FBI Goon asks.

\- I’m fine.

\- You do not look fine. 

\- I’ll sleep.

Quinn passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s still on the plane. The Goons are sleeping. He feels a little better. 

He takes a deep breath, he looks at the sky.

And suddenly he has a future.

Everything changes, thoughts and emotions – like, rearrange in his head. His heart is beating slower, more serenely. His imagination stops running wild with all the worst horrible possible scenarios – and that’s the moment Quinn realizes: they’re fading away – the feelings of unreality, mistrust, disbelief. The gnawing fear that this is just a lie somehow. Of course – it’s never this simple, it’s never this easy, everything will come back – at night – in the happy company of all the other giger-esque monsters his subconscious is able to invoke, but still – a step has been taken. 

Seeing her. Seeing her smiling at him. And... Let’s be honest - it’s the “Get your clothes off” that has really done the trick.

Because it doesn’t get more real than this.

You’re good, Natalia, he thinks.

The black veil of his future – which was a black wall, but now it’s a veil – is ripping, and on the other side there are – things. A post of analyst, at Langley. Maybe in Carrie’s committee, maybe not, but in the same building, against the same threats (the New Threats of Today). An apartment, not far from her house, so he can help with Frannie, and maybe, in time – a bigger house. For them. 

Colleagues. Friends. Carrie’s family. Holidays, in Italy. 

The monsters are there too. But they are not alone. And it doesn’t matter. He’ll deal with them. They will always be there, but – he doesn’t remember the last time there has been something else than darkness on the other side.

He goes to sleep.

Except it was not sleep – he must have passed out again, because when he wakes up he’s in his hospital bed and everyone's panicked. He gets treated, he gets scolded, he gets rehydrated, he gets better – his head is still spinning, but no comparison.

\- This trip has been very bad for your health, the nurse mutters – the nice one, with the great sense of humour and the engagement ring.

But it’s been great for my mental health, he thinks.

Hours pass, he dozes off, he wakes up, dozes off again. No news from Carrie – but he’s not worried. 

The evening sky’s getting dark grey when he receives her text.

* Listen. I yelled and I begged and I threatened again, and I’ve got four days. I’m coming to Berlin – to see you – next Thursday. I’m booking the tickets – if it’s ok with you? *

He takes the phone, musters all his strength to answer:

* Yes. *

The next text arrives pretty quickly.

* You know, not that I’m complaining, and I wouldn’t want you to take time out of your busy day of doing nothing, but people, actual people, they sometimes use words – I mean more than one – I mean even more than two – in these kind of situations. It happens. *

He's so tired. Rationality slipping away. He takes the phone back and writes: 

* Yes, my love. *

Send.

That shuts her up for a while. A few minutes after, she answers:

* Better. *

Then, he get a good night sleep, for the first time in years.


	6. The One with All The Other Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This could be the official ending for this fic, for "Endings"- it doesn't mean it will be the last ending I post here, it just mean it should be considered as the official conclusion. 
> 
> A post Season 5 Finale Ending. Not an alternate to anything, as you shall see. It's totally canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (First and foremost a tribute to all the writers of Carrie/Quinn fanfiction. Thank you to everybody.)

Of course, it’s a multiverse. 

One of the worst endings happens in Universe A-1.

None of us saw it coming. It’s the one where Carrie killed Quinn – twice. She killed him when they took the decision of waking him up, she killed him a second time, a few days after, for real.

People who followed the story were horrified – it was horrifying. 

But then, there are all the other alternate universes. Where the story, and the love story, unfolds differently. Our hero, our heroine – but something diverge. In each of those worlds, the tale is different, there is another atmosphere – it’s almost as if each narrative had a different writer. 

So, how do we get to all of these other endings? What does change? 

Generally, Carrie does. (At least, in the universes B to Q, if we believe the stats from the Guardians of the Multiverse.) (Yes, of course the Guardians keep statistics. Why do you ask?). 

So, mostly, Carrie changes. In these other worlds (in these other stories), our heroine has a slightly different character – she’s a little less screwed up. She’s not that blind. She’s less afraid of happiness, less afraid of giving a try. Something in her brain is not exactly the same, maybe one different neural pathway is all it needs – maybe one incident in her childhood turned out different, better, and that’s enough to make the equilibrium shift – suddenly, she gives him an opening. And in all these stories, in all these worlds, he seizes the opportunity – I mean, he like, jumps on it – as if it was his last hope for breath and light, and because we’ve seen the ending of Universe A-1, we know he’s right. It is his only fucking chance. 

If he doesn’t grab it, things will become… unpleasant. 

So, a change in Carrie’s character – that’s how the stories unfold in the majority of these parallel worlds (Universes B1- to Q-76, to be precise). She sees him – she notices him – and that’s enough. Very often, she uses him, at first. For sex. (This happens in a lot of those alternate universes. It can get pretty graphic. Not that he minds.) She gets drunk and she wants to jump his bones (Universes C-56 to C-78.). Or she's off her meds (in Islamabad – Universe E-83, I think?) and she wants to jump his bones. In many worlds she uses him for comfort. For distraction. But it works – she falls for him too - it’s like he just needed to make his case. As if, you know, sex was a powerful vessel for love, tenderness, mutual discovery. Who’d have thought? 

Yes, it generally ends up very well. 

Then, there are all the worlds where he is the one who is different. (Universes Q-77 to U-99? You can ask the Guardians of the Multiverse for their official publications. Maybe proofread this paper, double check my facts.) Anyway - those are the worlds where he is a little less screwed up, a little less fucking afraid (cause let’s face it, under the bravado and the swagger and the “Sure, I’ll kill people for you, twice a day with sunglasses and a smile if you put their name in a box”), under all of this, he’s so damn terrified of rejection it’s painful to watch. But in these other worlds something in his brain is not exactly the same, maybe one different neural pathway it all it needs – maybe one incident in this fucking foster home turned out different, better, and that’s enough to make the equilibrium shift – suddenly, he makes a move. Because they’re on a mission together (and she almost drowns) (Universe Q-80). Because he gets drunk and blurt out his feelings (Universe Q-84 to Q-98). Because they’re locked in a room in the fucking CIA (Universe R-56) because they’re in a trust seminar (Universe R-93), because they’re at a really big game, because there’s a heat wave. In a world he kills Brody, but he still tries with Carrie, and it works. (Universe U-1 – pretty intense). 

Whatever. He makes a move. Good for him. That generally ends well too. 

(Damn. When you think it could be so easy, right? Just with a little fucking twist.)

(And please don’t have this horrifying thought that none of those other universes actually exist, that Quinn was dreaming these stories while he was in a coma, that he was dreaming all of them just before Carrie… takes the decision to... Yeah, that’s not a happy interpretation of things. Just forget it, right now. Erase.)

Then there are the universes where it’s less the characters and more the events that change. For instance, there are worlds where there are no Brody, and our hero and heroine work together for months, for years – it gives them time to work things out – sometimes they even get married. Or there’s no CIA bombing (and instead of burying their colleagues, they banter and make out in a bar). Or she calls him back (after that fateful “so it’s a no” phone call.) Or he goes to Missouri. Then, later in the timeline… she calls him, or he calls her, while he’s in Syria. Or, she goes in Syria (in black). (Universe S-13. Man. That does not end well.). Or, he comes back from Syria – and he looks for her, or he spies on her, or she thinks he’s dead (and he is) (or he’s not) and there a thousand of possibilities there, a thousand worlds, sometimes he’s back but she is married and she’s happy and she doesn’t want him but fortunately sometimes she does and there’s (again) quite a lot of sex and a difficult transition. 

As you can see, those universes are already darker. It’s like, the later the change in the timeline, the darker the story. 

It’s like, he’s spiraling into hell, and it’s more difficult to get him out. 

And it makes sense, when you think of what we know now. What the story in universe A-1 told us. About the foster home. About this first mission, at 16, where he was sold to – where he was supposed to use his looks to seduce some – kingpin? Did I get that right? Because that’s so sad. So fucking damn sad.

So, slowly spiraling into darkness. 

Then it’s even later in the timeline. He took a bullet. (But she looks for him. She finds him. She gets him out of the terrorists' nest.) (V1 to V89.) Or it’s even later – he’s been in the gas chamber (God, just think, how screwed up is this story if there’s a gas chamber in it?). He’s in a coma, but he wakes up in universes W10 to Y54, all those fucking universes, all those fucking stories, where he wakes up, and I just can’t – think about them now, because all this hope, except, you know, he doesn’t. Wake up. In A-1.

He doesn’t wake up, and we're all watching in universe T-53, where this tale (the A1 story) is a television show. 

“To love and be loved”, she says. To the wrong guy. “I loved you”, our hero wrote in the letter she reads just after. 

But, she never saw him, they never happened, and now, they never will.

Right. This fucking A-1 ending. OK. I just… Can’t… Ok. Back to the other universes, shall we?

(They say there’s a universe where she changes her mind at the last moment, where she doesn’t smother him with a pillow or whatever, where the light behind the window doesn’t mean he’s dead. I can’t believe it. But what do I know? It’s an infinity of stories after all.)

You know, as hard as it is to believe, there is worse than A-1 out there. There are worse ways for the story to go – worse endings, scattered in this damn multiverse. There is the one where Quinn kills Carrie – he gets his picture in the box, and he just kills her. Yeah. (Universe T-3. Beautiful. Don’t read before breakfast.) In fact there is a bunch of worlds where he kills her. But the A-1 is the only one where she kills him, I think – I’ll ask for the updated stats, this is something that should definitely be verified. Interesting, though. All these worlds, and nobody see *that* coming.

Anyway, I’ll stop there. Just wanted to say – this is the thesis of this paper (this is just the pitch, I’m trying to get it published in the Guardians of the Multiverse official newsletter).... I just wanted to say that despite its powerful shadow, the A-1 ending is not stronger than the others. It’s not more real.

It didn’t have to go this way. Now don’t get me wrong – this A-1 ending – I admire it. I thought it was earned… in this universe, they are so lost, all of them, you know? Brody, Carrie, Quinn. Maybe Saul now. So lost. A tale of shadows, of broken people, of misguided hopes. 

This was always a tragedy.

But it’s just one story. In an infinity of possible stories. It didn’t have to go this way, it really didn’t. At any time, any moment, they could have made other decisions, other choices. You don’t have to believe in never ending despair – you can believe in joy. You don’t have to believe in ships missing themselves in the night – you can believe in redemption, in laughter, in catching people when they fall.

Darkness, you know? Fuck that. It’s always a choice. 

It’s just one story. It’s a multiverse.

And all the other stories are real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (To find a list of all the stories I alluded to, and more:
> 
> http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/67172.html
> 
> I don't think this list includes Bookjunk wonderful fanfiction stories (Universe T3 and Universe U1) - they are on this other fanfiction site, not this one, you know. )


	7. The One with The Atrocious Artichoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative ending for Season Five. Very silly, very fluffy to answer my own prompt ("Fuck that! No darkness allowed.")
> 
> I gave myself some writing constraints for this - in the spirit of a "bottle" episode. The constraints are:
> 
> 1 - One place. (Huis-Clos).  
> 2 - Dialogs only.  
> 3 - No description of any kind (no description of gestures, facial expressions, looks, nothing). The only actions allowed are: "Stands up" "Sits down" "Leaves".  
> 4 - Each of the four meals has a theme (respectively: fun - anger - serenity - sincerity).
> 
> That's it!

2012  
(Turning Brody. Tracking Abu Nazir.)

Are you kidding? They got no time to eat!

  


2013  
(Javadi. The search for Brody. The search for the CIA Bomber)

  


Saul: So, good – I’m glad I got you both here – it’s important we’re finally taking the time to discuss the fine points of this strategy, and...

Carrie: Shit. There’s only pizza here. I hate pizza.

Quinn: It’s an Italian restaurant.

Carrie: So what? Italian people do eat other stuff, you know.

Saul: I want you both completely on target, and extremely conscious of the implications of…

Quinn: How can you not like pizza? All analysts love pizza – it’s easy to order, easy to eat. I’ve seen you eat pizza.

Carrie: Well, maybe I ate too much and now I’m sick of it.

Saul: Can we focus here? Thank you. Ok. See, we have to be subtle. I don’t want to get too technical, or too much into theological nuances, but…

Carrie: Hey, Artichoke pizza! That’s great. I love Artichoke pizza.

Saul: … but to really get what’s Javadi is facing in his own government, you have to understand some of the subtleties of the Islamic way of considering power… 

Quinn: How can you hate pizza and love artichoke pizza? Artichoke pizza is disgusting. See? There’s lasagna. You should have lasagna. 

Saul: … the Islamic way of considering power – which, if you think about it, really explains most of the Shiit-Sunni tensions, because…

Carrie: Artichoke pizza is great. Because it’s original, and different. Figures that you wouldn’t like it, Quinn.

Quinn: Oh, because, what? I don’t like what’s different?

Carrie: No you don’t… You’re like, Mister Normal, Mister Rules, Mister I’m doing everything on time all the fucking time – I’m sure you’re eating the same thing all the time too. Like, the same meals, every day of every fucking week…

Saul: Ok. I feel like you’re not completely focusing on the issue here. Carrie, can we please…

Carrie: Actually – no, forget it – I know exactly how you’re eating, Quinn.

Quinn: Oh – I can’t wait. Tell me what I eat, and tell me what I think, Carrie. In excruciating details, please.

Saul: People, can we…

Carrie: I’m sure you have a different meal planned for every… meal, but you know, year round, like – Hello, I am Quinn. Every Monday, at lunch, every week, for a year, I will have tuna with green beans. Then, on Tuesday, at dinner, every week, for a year, I’ll have pasta with tomatoes. Then, on Wednesday, at lunch…

Saul: Hey! Waiter! Can we order here?

Quinn: Well, Carrie, no – you’ll be sad to know I am not following the system you just so aptly described. But it does sound like a good idea, and a great way to balance your diet…

Carrie: God. 

Saul (to the waiter): Hi! Thank heavens you’re here. So – one lasagna – for me. Quinn?

Quinn: One Regina pizza – with extra cheese. 

Saul: And apparently… one Artichoke Pizza for the lady.

Quinn: You should order lasagna, Carrie.

Carrie: No. I’ll stick with artichoke, thank you very much.

The Waiter: Excellent choice, young lady. Your meals will be right here.

Quinn: … So, back to this weekly system – yes, it would be great, when you think about it – because you could calculate exactly the amount of carbs, protein, vitamins, etc., on a day to day basis but with still keeping the possibility of rotating the meals…

Saul (to the waiter): Wait! On second thought, I want a drink. Anything. Yes. Whisky would be fine.

Quinn: … so see, it would be a rational diet, but with just the right amount of flexibility…

Carrie: Oh my God you are a sociopath.

Quinn: What? Because I don’t get drunk every night – and I happen to actually eat vegetables?

Carrie: I don’t get fucking drunk every night.

Quinn: Sticking to a balanced diet is an excellent thing.

Carrie: So is alcohol. And you know… doing crazy things sometimes. Taking risks. 

Quinn: Yes. Because we live lives where we’re taking no risks. So it’s a good idea to, you know, add some.

Saul: Right. Well said. Thank you, Quinn. Now, can we get back to work? See what’s pretty interesting – and paradoxical - about Javadi’s situation is…

Carrie: I’m not talking about these kind of risks and you know it perfectly, Quinn. I’m talking about… Your attitude, about life. I’m talking about… Being passionate... Having a fucking heart, for once, you know? Being… Hey! Food! At last! Thank you so much.

The Waiter: You’re talking about having a heart, pretty lady? You know, I hope – Italian food is the food of love.

Saul: Indeed. Thank you, sir. The food of love. Absolutely. Now, about Javadi…

Carrie: Ha! It seems I shut you up for once, Quinn. See, Saul? I shut him up. Mister I know it all doesn’t have an answer to that one.

Saul: To which one?

Carrie: The necessity of having a… Shit. This is awful.

Saul: What’s awful?

Carrie: Artichoke pizza.

Quinn: You asked for it. You said you liked it.

Carrie: It’s disgusting. I should have ordered lasagna.

Quinn: You should have. 

Carrie: Can I taste your Regina?

Quinn: No.

Carrie: This is, like, the most awful artichoke I’ve ever tasted. It’s like… atrocious. It’s an Atrocious Artichoke.

Quinn: Artichoke is always awful. Also you can’t use the adjective “atrocious” in relation to a vegetable.

Saul: I need another whisky.

Carrie: What? Of course I can use “atrocious” this way. It’s grammatically correct and everything.

Quinn: Sure it is grammatically correct – but it’s not – the right meaning of atrocious.

Carrie: It’s a metaphor. I can totally use it.

Quinn: No you can’t.

Carrie: Yes I can.

Quinn: No you can’t.

Saul: WAITER!!

 

2014  
(The Drone Queen. Sandy Bachman getting lynched. Congressional hearings.)

Carrie: You need food, Quinn. 

Quinn: No, I don’t.

Carrie: Sit. You spent the day in jail. And the night drinking, I suppose. 

Quinn: I’m fine.

Carrie: You just beat a guy half to death. You are not fine.

Quinn: Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.

Carrie: Good. Hey! Can we have some service in here? Thank you. We’ll take one Regina pizza, extra cheese for the gentleman here, and… Hey! Artichoke Pizza! I love Artichoke Pizza. One for me, please.

The Waiter: Excellent choice, young lady. 

Carrie: Thank you.

The Waiter: You know, I hope – Italian food is the food of love. You and your boyfriend are really going to…

Carrie: Yeah. Go away. This place looks familiar. I think I already ate here.

Quinn: We already ate here.

Carrie: No, I think I came here once – a few months ago with Maggie.

Quinn: No. We ate here, last year, the three of us. Saul, you, and me.

Carrie: No we didn’t.

Quinn: Yeah, we fucking did.

Carrie: God! Did jail make you even more obnoxious?

Quinn: It has this effect on people. 

Carrie: Or maybe it’s the hangover.

Quinn: No. Hangovers make me more charming, generally.

Carrie: I’m still waiting to experience that effect. Quinn, you’ve got to eat. And the more fatty foods, the better. I mean, I have experience with hangovers, and…

Quinn: Or maybe it’s your fucking presence.

Carrie: What?

Quinn: Which makes me even more obnoxious.

Carrie: Hey, I got you out of jail, asshole.

Quinn: Yeah. You’re a fucking angel. 

Carrie: I am. Especially as you had no one else to call.

Quinn: You have such a wonderful influence on my life, I mean, it’s almost like you’re my lucky charm.

Carrie: Well, fuck you. Damn. What’s gotten into you?

Quinn: What’s gotten into me? Oh, really? Now you want to know what’s gotten into me?

Carrie: God, you’re still drunk. And yeah, I want to fucking know.

Quinn: Oh, you want to fucking know.

Carrie: Yes, I want to fucking know.

Quinn: Well, you asked. What’s fucking gotten into me, Carrie, is… 

The Waiter: … And here we are, a Regina with all the cheese we could find, all the cheese in the house, I mean, I even went back to Rome for some of it, and the delicious, wonderful artichoke pizza for the charming, sweet young lady here… 

Carrie: Thank you.

The Waiter: Enjoy!

Carrie: So, Quinn? What’s fucking gotten into you is…? I mean, I’m waiting for the answer, you know, like, with baited breath. Like, the suspense is killing me… 

Quinn: …

Carrie: What? Quinn? What? 

Quinn: You hate this pizza.

Carrie: What?

Quinn: You hate this pizza. This fucking Artichoke Pizza. You already ordered it last time, and you hate it.

Carrie: No I didn’t.

Quinn: Yes you did.

Carrie: That’s what you wanted to say to me?

Quinn: Yeah. That’s what I wanted to say to you.

Carrie: Ok. Right. Whatever.

Quinn: You should have ordered lasagna.

Carrie: No, I’m sure I… Shit. This is awful.

Quinn: Your Artichoke Pizza is awful? I’m stunned.

Carrie: It’s disgusting. It’s… Oh my God, Quinn! You’re right! This is the place with the Atrocious Artichoke!

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: How do you remember that? Do you remember every meal we had?

Quinn: I remember the conversation.

Carrie: Why? Oh – you’re right. Me too. Saul kept blabbering about Javadi. I mean, sometimes, you can’t shut that man up.

Quinn: You kept using “atrocious” wrong.

Carrie: There’s nothing wrong with saying “atrocious artichoke”. 

Quinn: There’s nothing grammatically wrong with it, but it’s not… the appropriate adjective.

Carrie: It can be.

Quinn: No it can’t. But sure, I don’t care. Make all the wrong choices. See if I give a fucking damn.

Carrie: No, I’m pretty sure using “atrocious” in this context is…

Quinn (standing up): No. Also, fuck you Carrie. And bye. Order lasagna.

Carrie: What? Quinn, wait, you…

Quinn: I’ll find my own way home. Just stay the fuck away from me.

Carrie: Fine. Fuck you.

Quinn (leaves): Fuck you. 

The Waiter: Hey, pretty lady… what happened? You’re alone?

Carrie: What? I’m not alone.

The Waiter: Where did your boyfriend go?

Carrie: To hell. For all I care. Can I have lasagna?

 

2016  
(Nothing.)

 

2017  
(Nothing.)

 

2018  
(Lunch.)

 

Saul: So, Carrie, are you sleeping with Otto During?

Carrie: Shit, Saul! Is that a polite way to start a meal? We haven’t even ordered yet.

Quinn: I suggest we order wine. And a lot of it, considering the way the conversation is already going.

Carrie: I don’t know, Quinn. Can you drink? I mean, with all the medication? 

Quinn: I don’t know if I can, but I certainly do. No… Relax, Carrie, I’m joking. Anyway, meds are over. It’s mostly reeducation now.

Carrie: Really? That’s wonderful. But I heard that alcohol…

Quinn: Stop worrying. You know, I work and everything. I’m pretty much normal.

Carrie: Is that even possible? I mean, even with all the treatments in the world…

Quinn: Hilarious. And, good point. I’ll drink one glass of wine. Is that ok with you, madam?

Carrie: You have my permission.

Quinn: You are too generous.

Saul: So, are you?

Carrie: Sorry, what?

Saul: Sleeping with Otto During. You know, is it one of your responsibilities? Of your brand fucking new job of - what’s your title already? Co-director of the magical foundation that’s going to make the world a better place and protect it from the perverse influence of the US government evil minions?

Quinn: Wow. Someone’s in a bad mood.

Carrie: Saul…

Saul: What? It doesn’t bother you, Quinn? That Carrie’s sleeping with the enemy? Literally and metaphorically? 

Quinn: I’m the new me. I’m very zen. Nothing touches me.

Carrie: The new you? When did that happen?

Quinn: It’s a decision I’ve taken when the doctors finally gave me a clean bill of health – well, not exactly clean, but… close enough. 

Carrie: Good. I’m so happy for you, Quinn.

Saul: So? Otto During? Fucking him? Yes or no?

Carrie: I fuck who I want to. And don’t take that tone with me, Saul – you do not have the right to speak to me like that – you wouldn’t have, even if I was sleeping with half of the German government…

Saul: I’m sure you already are. What will be in it for you? A place of Secretary of State? 

Quinn (to the waiter): Hi. Hello. What a nice day we’re having, right? Can we have the menus please? 

The Waiter: Coming right now, sir. 

Carrie: Go to hell, Saul.

Saul: Sure, I’ll go to hell, while you go on betraying… everything we ever worked for, everything we ever tried to accomplish…

Quinn: So… I think I’ll stick to the Regina…

Carrie: Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing, Saul. I’m actively trying to destroy the United States, from Berlin. Every morning, I wake up and I think: how am I going to… Hey! Artichoke pizza!

Quinn: You should order lasagna.

Carrie: What? No, I love Artichoke Pizza… Come on, Saul, can we talk rationally for a minute? I’m here because…

Saul (standing up): No. You know what, Carrie? I cannot talk rationally about this. You’re a traitor. Maybe not legally, maybe not… practically, but morally, you are.

Carrie: Saul, wait. Please. Listen…

Saul: Fuck you. And bye.

(Saul leaves.)

Quinn: Order the lasagna. 

Carrie: What? 

Quinn: You always order the Artichoke Pizza here, and you always hate it.

Carrie: We already ate here?

Quinn: Twice.

Carrie: I don’t remember. And, you know, I really like artichoke, and I almost never… God. I can’t believe Saul still hates me. 

Quinn: He doesn’t hate you. He’s just angry, and… sad. But he will calm down. Try calling him tomorrow, after a good night sleep.

Carrie: Tomorrow I’ll be on a plane back to Berlin. Damn. I really wanted to make peace with him, and also, I… To be honest, I think I can use his help on a number of matters. I really think we can work together, Saul and I… and… Well, fuck.

Quinn: You want to go after him? You can leave me here. No problem.

Carrie: No, I want to talk to you too… Hi! Yes… One Artichoke pizza for me, please. 

The Waiter: Excellent choice, young lady.

Carrie: Also, a bottle of red wine. And for the gentleman…

Quinn: One Regina pizza. With extra cheese. You really shouldn’t order the artichoke, Carrie.

Carrie: Why? I’m sure I’ll love it.

Quinn: Ok. Whatever you want.

Carrie: Wow, you really are a new you - all calm and smiling and… You don’t think I am a traitor, do you?

Quinn: I don’t think you are a traitor. And I’m following the precepts of the Torah, with just a little twist of Buddhism – also, I got into scientology recently, and…

Carrie: What!? You’re kidding.

Quinn: I am kidding.

Carrie: God. Shit. You really scared me. I thought you were becoming a… you know.

Quinn: I’m not becoming anything, and I’m certainly not following anything. But yes, I did find a new outlook on life. 

Carrie: You’re fucking zen.

Quinn: I try to keep… a healthy distance with events. With emotions. I try to be serene.

Carrie: Good for you. I mean, distance is good, I guess. Good. Excellent. Good. So, er…

Quinn: So?

Carrie: So… I wanted to talk to you.

Quinn: Sure. I’m listening.

Carrie: … he says, with distance and serenity.

Quinn: It’s all in the attitude. You know, the voice, the controlled gestures…

Carrie: So, Dar Adal gave me your letter.

Quinn: What letter?

Carrie: The, er. The letter you wrote to me. I read it.

Quinn: I really don’t remember writing you any letter, Carrie. When…?

Carrie: Well… er… we thought you were dead. In the hospital. And… so… so Dar Adal thought, you know. Because you… you did write me a letter, once. When you… left? For Syria? That letter?

The Waiter: … and here’s the wine, and – two glasses – if the pretty lady would just move her handbag – right, thank you – and you were right, what a gorgeous weather we are having today, right? A really beautiful autumn, don’t you love it, when the leaves just stay golden for a while… And it’s turning cold, but the sky is still blue? Anyway… There you are… glasses full – enjoy.

Quinn: … I… Fuck. Sorry.

The Waiter: It’s ok! Don’t move – I mean, people spill wine all the time, I’ll just be back with a…

Quinn: Yes… Sorry… I just… Fuck.

The Waiter: Hey! If you really don’t like this wine, just tell me, you know. No need to spill two glasses of it – kidding, I’m kidding, don’t move… I’ll be back with… Don’t move. Don’t even look at that bottle, sir! Kidding. I’m kidding. 

Quinn: Sorry. Sorry. I mean… Carrie, did I get you? With the wine?

Carrie: You didn’t. And it’s a dark suit anyway. 

The Waiter: Here I am with everything… New napkins, new… There… and two new glasses of wine… I’ll just put both of them very far from you, right, sir? Kidding. I’m kidding. Enjoy. I’ll be back with the pizzas in a minute.

Carrie: Quinn… I know it was… Very long ago… But I, er…

Quinn: It was… a whole different context – two – three years ago – and er – I – we had just – both gone through a lot – in Islamabad and er…

Carrie: Sure, yes, absolutely…

Quinn: … I was still under the… shock of… 

Carrie: Yes… I understand…

Quinn: I… Just… And… What the fuck do you want from me, Carrie? Right? I mean… What the fuck do you even want?

Carrie: Wow. What happened to serenity?

Quinn: I’m serene. I’m fucking serene. I just don’t fucking understand why you choose to…

The Waiter: And here are the pizzas! One Regina for the gentleman, one Artichoke for the pretty lady… and nobody spilled wine this time, congratulations! By the way, you know – I hope… Italian food is the food of lo…

Quinn: Shut up, ok! Just shut up! Italian food is the food of fucking nothing, and it never works anyway! It just NEVER fucking works!

The Waiter: O-kay. I’ll let you enjoy your meal, sir.

Carrie: And, wow. For the second time.

Quinn: Fuck you too, Carrie.

Carrie: O-kay. I’ll just… eat my… Shit. This is awful.

Quinn: No? Really? The Artichoke Pizza is awful? Really?

Carrie: Atrocious.

Quinn: Groundhog Day. I’m stuck in fucking Groundhog Day, except, with artichoke.

Carrie: What are you talking about?

Quinn: Order the fucking lasagna. No, you know what? I have a better idea. Just go. Go back to screwing your fucking boss in fucking Berlin.

Carrie: He’s not my boss. He’s my partner.

Quinn: What? How?

Carrie: He offered me a partnership in the Foundation. And I accepted it. It’s a great job. Lot of potential.

Quinn: Wow. Being a slut really does pay, right?

Carrie: You know, I have all day. So you can keep insulting me, I don’t care, just tell me when you’re done, I’ll just pour myself another glass of wine before ordering something else. Because this pizza is really bad… Hey! But you’re right, Quinn! We already ate here! It’s the place with the…

Quinn: Don’t even fucking say it.

Carrie: … Atrocious Artichoke.

Quinn: I’ve not even going to… God.

Carrie: Oh, yes, I remember now. We had a whole discussion – no, two of them, about the fact that “atrocious” was somehow not appropriate in this context…

Quinn: It’s not. It’s just not. It’s just…

Carrie: I’m not fucking Otto During. Not yet anyway.

Quinn: What does that even mean, “not yet”?

Carrie: It means exactly that. Otto is a great guy. He is a good man, fighting for the right side of the Force. But he is also manipulative, ruthless, and very very clever. It’s fascinating to watch, really. So, anyway, a week ago, he proposed to me.

Quinn: He proposed. Like – proposed – like – marriage.

Carrie: Yes. 

Quinn: So you have been screwing him.

Carrie: No. As I said – not yet. See, this is why I’m here. Having lunch, with you, in this restaurant. Having this charming conversation. Before I say yes – to Otto’s proposal – I wanted to check with you – well, not check, really… I just… Fuck. Sorry. I’m doing this all wrong. Don’t… insult me, or yell at me, please, Quinn, ok? Just for, like, thirty seconds? Can you do that? Just let me catch my breath? Cause I’m just… trying to…

Quinn: …

Carrie: … I’m just trying to get this right…

Quinn: …

Carrie: … I’m thinking, we never really gave it a try, you and me, and I thought, I’ve been thinking – since I read the letter – if you… If you wanted to – well, well, to give it a try. You and me. I know this is all very out of the blue, as you said the letter was almost three years ago, so I suppose you had all the time in the world to change your mind, but… Quinn, what are you doing?

Quinn: Leaving.

Carrie: But… Why…

Quinn: I’m not having this conversation. 

Carrie: Quinn, listen…

Quinn: Just… stay the fuck away from me, Carrie, ok? Just…

Carrie: Fine. And fuck you too.

Quinn: Yeah.

(Quinn leaves). 

The Waiter: Hey, pretty lady… what happened? You’re alone?

Carrie: … I… don’t really… know. 

The Waiter: Where did your boyfriend go?

Carrie: Unclear.

The Waiter: Not for me to judge, but he didn’t seem like your type anyway.

Carrie: Yeah. Maybe. 

The Waiter: Don’t… be sad, ok? Beautiful women don’t have the right to be sad in our establishment. Not on my watch.

Carrie: Shit. What an asshole, right?

The Waiter: I wouldn’t use, or understand, such vocabulary, madam. During work hours, anyway.

Carrie: God. Fuck.

The Waiter: Sorry.

Carrie: Yeah. Can I order lasagna?

The Waiter: Sure.

Carrie: Well, but… Whatever. We’ll see. You know what? The story’s not over.

The Waiter: That’s the spirit.

 

(Texts)

 

*Hey, Carrie, it’s Quinn. I may have overreacted a little at lunch. Can we talk? Again? Before you go back to Berlin?*

*Sure. When?*

*Tonight?*

*Sure.*

*Dinner? At the same restaurant? 8 pm?*

*Sure.*

 

2018  
(Dinner.)

Quinn: Hey, Carrie… I thought… I mean, good that you’re here… Please sit down.

Carrie: I’m not late, am I?

Quinn: No… I… don’t know. I think I was a little early. Hey! Can we get wine here?

Carrie (sitting down): I just hope, for your sake, that it’s not the same waiter. Oh. But it is! What are the odds? That he’d still be on the same shift? Must be your lucky day.

Quinn: Hilarious – again. Hey, hi. Yes, we’re back. Sorry for… everything, mostly. Anyway. Can we have wine? Red wine? The same? 

The Waiter: As long as you don’t touch the glasses, sir. Or the bottle. Or anything, really. 

Quinn: Oh, you’re funny too. I’m surrounded by funny people.

The Waiter: Back with the wine in a minute, sir. 

Quinn: So.

Carrie: So. You know, there are so many jokes I could tell. I mean, I have enough material to make fun of you for centuries. The serenity thing? The “I’m a changed man” thing?

Quinn: I didn’t actually said I was a changed man. 

Carrie: It was implied. 

The Waiter: And here is the wine… I’ll be back in a minute to take your orders. Don’t spill anything. Kidding. I’m kidding.

Quinn: You are kidding. And it’s not repetitive. Or annoying. At all.

The Waiter: Enjoy.

Carrie: So. We were on the topic of “serenity”.

Quinn: Carrie, I… I did change. I do have to work on the serenity aspect, as you might have noticed, but on other aspects, I did change. And I…

Carrie: Oh. You mean… Of course you changed. Again, it was three years ago – sorry. Of course. Sorry for bothering you.

Quinn: No. No. It’s not what I mean, at all. In fact, I mean the opposite.

Carrie: I – you’ll have to be clearer.

Quinn: I – yes. That’s one of the aspects of the change, really. I try to be clearer. More direct. More… truthful. 

Carrie: Ok.

Quinn: So, I’m going to be… sincere. And direct.

Carrie: Ok...

Quinn: … And I really need some wine first.

Carrie: Yeah. God. Great. Yes. Me too.

Quinn: Good. Thank you. I’ll try not to spill it. Ok. Here goes the speech. The… One of the reasons I overreacted earlier is because… This… conversation does not have the same weight for you than it has for me. For you, it’s just – hey, Otto – that’s a possibility… Or, Quinn… sure, why not, let’s give it a try…

Carrie: It’s not like that.

Quinn: Except - I… love you. I love you, Carrie, so when you say… when you say those things, it’s my life you’re playing with.

The Waiter: So, are we ready to order? Or – ok – gazing soulfully in each other eyes, that’s also a possibility… that’s nice – certainly better than this morning. You know, I hope – Italian food is the food of l…

Carrie: … Lasagna. I’ll have the lasagna.

Quinn: One Regina pizza. With extra cheese.

The Waiter: Well, I know when I’m not wanted – knowing when to shut up – one of the secrets of our business – I’ll be back with your food! 

Carrie: … Shit. Yes. That was pretty truthful.

Quinn: I try.

Carrie: But – you are… It’s not entirely true… I mean, even if – it didn’t – you would have many other options…

Quinn: None that… 

The Waiter: Sorry – me again – but… Young lady – you ordered the lasagna, right? 

Carrie: Yes.

The Waiter: I just wanted to check because – no Artichoke Pizza for you today?

Carrie: No.

The Waiter: Duly noted. I’ll be back.

Quinn: … No, Carrie, I don’t have – many other options, none that count anyway, none that… because… Because… Oh God. Fuck. Being direct and truthful is not that easy, you know? 

Carrie: I do know. I blame our work. And our fucked up personalities.

Quinn: All the things I could say to you are so – trite – that you would… laugh.

Carrie: Try me.

Quinn: No. Just… You are juggling with the men in your life. And there’s nothing wrong with that, men always liked you, you’re using it – of course you should. You are the one with many options, and you are weighing them. I’m Option B. Good for you. But…

Carrie: Quinn…

Quinn: No. Listen. Just… thirty seconds more, for the second part of the speech. I actually rehearsed what I’m going to say now. Before the dinner. 

Carrie: Very truthful of you to admit it.

Quinn: See? Well, here it is. You made me a proposition at lunch – like Otto made a proposition to you – yes, I appreciate the symmetry. You want to ‘give it a try’. I want to – if you want this, with me, you’ll have to… do better. Than giving it a try. I want more than to be a possibility, an option. I mean, I don’t know what I can ask of you, I cannot ask anything, and… Of course there can never be any certainty, I know that, but… Fuck. So much for rehearsing. Carrie, I…

Carrie: Careful!

Quinn: Sorry I…

Carrie: It’s fine… 

Quinn: I think that waiter would have killed me if I had spilled that fucking bottle. 

Carrie: He would have tried. I think you can take him.

Quinn: Yes, I think I still could. Ok. Well. That’s it. I… completely – jumbled my speech – but – you get the idea.

Carrie: I do. And shit, Quinn.

Quinn: You already said that.

Carrie: I… I just don’t see how… I can meet your expectations. I mean – I don’t want to quit my job at the Foundation…

Quinn: Of course! No, I’m not asking you to… You don’t get it. I…

Carrie: No, you don’t get it - and you know what – my turn to talk. I can make a speech too. 

Quinn: Ok.

Carrie: First, you’re Option A. And yes, I do have other options, I do have another pretty tempting option, a very clever man, who shares my goals. And yes, of course I’m thinking about his proposition, and the power, and the money – not for the money itself – but for the possibilities. 

Quinn: Yeah. I get it. I…

Carrie: Can you just fucking listen for a minute? But see, I’m ready to turn down all this – for you. For you, if you trust me, if you… give me… a chance, because the marriage with Otto – what he’s proposing me, it’s a union of convenience, not of…

Quinn: Of?

Carrie: Of love. And I want more than convenience. I do – I guess I have to thank Jonas for this, for realizing – I want more of life. Like you want more. So – my proposition is – awful – selfish, I know. I’m asking you to leave everything, to come with me to Berlin, and yeah – there would not be any certainty – there never is. But… would you? 

The Waiter: … Hi! here I am again – I know you must hate me, considering the looks you both have on your face right now – but – sir, we have a problem with the Regina. We’re out of ham – yes, I know, for an Italian restaurant – that specialize in pizza, not a happy thought – but there it is, the harsh reality, you know, so the chef, he replaced it with smoked salmon – and artichoke – it seemed like a bold choice, on a Regina, so I wanted to be sure, before…

Quinn: Sure. Yes. Whatever. 

The Waiter: So – artichoke and smoked salmon and – the rest? Of the Regina – whole… concept?

Quinn: Yes.

The Waiter: You’re sure? Because it is – rather unusual…

Quinn: Yes.

The Waiter: You mean - you’re ok with it?

Quinn: Yes.

The Waiter: Fine. I’ll be back in a moment with your orders.

Quinn: … Carrie, that’s… crazy. I mean – not me coming to Berlin – that’s – not… crazy at all, but I mean – you would lose everything…

Carrie: No – as I said – I would be keeping the job. The partnership. I anticipated this, I mean, I thought – maybe, you know? So I negotiated an ironclad contract. 

Quinn: But Otto?

Carrie: Otto is a very rational man. He will be disappointed for a few days, I guess. But I will be an excellent business partner, a trusted ally, and he will just choose another woman to share his life with. Someone important, with ties to the government – you know, this job of Secretary of State Saul was talking about… Oh, he will get it. Believe me.

Quinn: …

Carrie: Quinn?

Quinn: I… as I said – this conversation does not have the same weight for you and for me, Carrie. So… I just… I am… I mean…

Carrie: Yes?

Quinn: Did you really think… there was any chance… I would refuse this proposition? Any chance on earth?

Carrie: I… don’t know. You said you changed.

Quinn: Not on this. I... 

Carrie: …

The Waiter: And here we are with the food… And now we are holding hands, so I guess, things are progressing nicely. So one Regina pizza, with no ham but with smoked salmon and artichoke, and all the cheese we could find, all the cheese in the house, I mean, I even went back to Rome for some of it, and the lasagna for the young lady here… Miss, be sincere. You didn’t like the Artichoke Pizza earlier? 

Carrie: I, er, sorry. What?

The Waiter: The Artichoke Pizza. You didn’t like it? This morning, I mean. At lunch?

Carrie: I – no. It’s really awful. Sorry.

The Waiter: Ok. Thank you for your feedback – I will tell the cook… I swear, I’m making myself scarce now. Not getting near this table again. You’ll have to yell to get some service. Bye!

Carrie: So… you have in your plate what one could call an Artichoke Pizza.

Quinn: I’m aware.

Carrie: One awful, horrible, Artichoke Pizza.

Quinn: I have… some difficulty caring about what’s in my plate right now. 

Carrie: On this pizza, there is some artichoke – so bad, that some people might even say it’s atrocious.

Quinn: Fine. 

Carrie: Fine? Really?

Quinn: I’m good with it. 

Carrie: An Atrocious Artichoke.

Quinn: What a beautiful way to phrase it.

Carrie: A-tro-cious.

Quinn: Perfect word. 

Carrie: You really are a changed man.

Quinn: Told you.


	8. The One with "Dar Adal wrote the letter!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silly.

\- One Regina pizza with extra cheese, Carrie says, getting the food out of the takeout bags, and – lasagna for me…

\- Mmm, Quinn answers, completely focused on his computer screen.

\- And by “Mmm”, I’m sure you mean “Thank you Carrie, it was really generous of you to go get the food, and bring back your favorite pizza, while I was the one supposed to buy dinner because I, Quinn, invited you here for the night, yes, dear Carrie, I’m immensely grateful, please put the pizza here on the desk while I wrap up my totally boring work and join you with a happy smile.”

\- Yeah, Quinn mumbles – not moving his head for even a second. On the desk.

God.

Carrie takes the lasagna and a coke from the bag and throws herself on the couch, before staring at Quinn’s back with rancor. 

Come on. That guy – that guy wrote the letter? That guy, who hasn’t even glanced at her when she arrived, who is now so concentrated on his e-mails that he is kind of actually feeling with his left hand for his slice of pizza – not even looking at it – no, cause that would be too much work – that guy, who’s fascinated by his accounting while she, Carrie Mathison, a beautiful blond women with long legs is fulminating on his couch – that guy wrote her like, the most romantic letter of all time?

Yeah, right. 

They are not dating, Quinn and Carrie. They are friends, but very, very good friends, in fact, better friends that they ever were before. Living in New York (Carrie is working at the UN, Quinn is managing the brand new security firm he created six months ago), seeing each other all the time. This new relationship was created while Quinn was hospitalized. Carrie came twice a week, helping him with his recovery, yelling at him when he had bouts of depression – yelling at a depressed person is not what doctors might generally order, but it worked fine, because Quinn yelled back and they insulted each other and he generally felt much better afterwards – so anyway they spent a lot of time together, and then Carrie got him a little apartment near her place in Manhattan and Quinn was with her and Frannie often, helping Carrie and listening to her rants about the UN and at the same time being in the not at all simple process of creating his own business with the help of a guy named Rob, who is an ass, but very efficient (Carrie is sure Rob is black ops or ex black ops too, but nothing is official, the guy has a hell of a cover story).

Anyway – this friendship – it’s wonderful. Carrie knows that Quinn’s stable presence in her life had helped her a lot. And they never talk about it, but she knows that she had been an essential part of his recovery process, and of his speedy adaptation to his new life – she just knows. So, you know, delightful, and everything, but what about this fucking letter?

I mean, come on. You read a letter like that – you wonder, right? And Carrie had wondered – a lot. But when Quinn was conscious at last, when he was fighting to recover his voice, and his coordination, and –pretty bad stuff happened during the three first months, and he was a trooper, and honestly she was too – so, during the recovery there was no trace of this guy (the guy who could have written such a romantic missive). Which – fair enough – Quinn had other fishes to fry. In the hospital, he was always happy to see her – not that he would ever say it, but Carrie knew – he listened to her (mostly), they fought a lot but it didn’t have any consequences, and all of this was very – Quinn.

But she was kind of… looking for… something more, you know? And she had thought that maybe, when he got better, she might see… in him… 

Well, she didn’t see shit. The fights disappeared and their relationship transformed in this very close friendship (that she loves), but, anyway.

Carrie takes another sip of her coke. Quinn is still on his computer, still not looking at her.

\- Yeah, you know what? he mutters. Accountants should be shot on sight. On fucking sight.

\- Oh, sorry – are you talking to me now? Are you actually noticing my presence? 

\- I’m not talking to you in particular, I’m talking to the universe. Accountants should be murdered, one by one, except their teeth should be pulled out first.

\- And men who invite women to spend the evening with them should pay attention to their guests.

\- Fuck off, Carrie.

Yeah. So that man – that man? – wrote her a letter with “false glimmers” and “yours forever now” and poetic ramblings about darkness? Whatever. That didn’t happen. Dar Adal wrote that fucking letter. Yes, it’s the only rational explanation, it’s the only thing that makes sense, Dar Adal clearly did write it, to play a very elaborate joke on Carrie. Or maybe composing a fake super romantic letter to her and sign it “Peter Quinn” is part of a complex CIA conspiracy, and the goal of this conspiracy is… Hum. Ok. Well, the goals of a good conspiracy are always mysterious, right?

\- You know, I asked the nanny to stay the evening for this.

\- If at the end of the evening you’re not happy, I’ll reimburse you. 

(Still on the computer, still his back at her).

\- I’m not happy.

\- Evening’s not over.

\- I’m going to throw lasagna at you.

\- If there’s one fucking bit of lasagna on my new carpeting – one! – I’ll tear your head off.

It doesn’t get more romantic than this.

So, a little secret – Carrie asked the nanny to stay the night. Not the evening, the night. And the nanny is supposed to take care of Frannie the next morning too. And Carrie has dressed very carefully – a black dress, shiny black tights, new underwear, because… enough is enough. Because, it’s been almost a year and a half (since she read the letter) and she wants to know. 

Yes, Carrie is conscious that the letter was written two years before she read it. She knows that you can change your mind a lot in two years, and that anyway this fucking letter was already written in the past tense (I loved you, not I love you, please notice the nuance). Yes, past tense. But when you write such a letter – even years after – there must be a tiny… something… left… somewhere… right?

But what use are a gorgeous black dress and tights and heels if he’s not even fucking looking at you?

\- I’m going to call him, Quinn is saying. I’m going to call that moron.

Hey, look! He stands up! Miracles are happening! And now he’s looking at Carrie – or, to be exact – he’s waving his phone at her. 

\- I’m going to tell my accountant that if I waste my fucking money on him, I want some fucking work doing on fucking time, and that that fucking work better make fucking sense.

Carrie smiles. A nice, seductive smile, and she crosses her legs suggestively.

\- Or, you could come sit here, on the couch, near me, and we could start to… have fun.

Now, how’s that for innuendo? 

Quinn's answer: 

\- I should call Rob.

And he walks near the sink (for some reason) and begins to call Rob.

For God’s sake.

But – Carrie has to say – she’s looking at Quinn discussing numbers and projections and boring business stuff – he’s looking good. New Quinn looks really different than old Quinn. First, new Quinn wears glasses – it’s not a consequence of the gas, he just needs glasses now. And they give him a kind of – intellectual, hipster look – it’s not bad at all. His hands shiver uncontrollably sometimes, but he just stops typing when that happens (and curses). He’s thinner, but he also dresses in a more sophisticated way – it’s New York, after all – with a lot of navy blue shirts and navy blue tee-shirts – and with the glasses, the navy blue really make his eyes pop, and…

\- Why are you looking at me like that? he asks.

Carrie realizes his phone conversation is over and she’s staring.

\- I just think you look good with glasses.

And she smiles seductively again, she crosses her legs (again) (the other way), she even passes her hand in her hair for good measure, and his reaction is: 

\- I’m still hungry. I think I have potato chips. Do you want chips? This pizza was shit, by the way.

Ok. You know what? Enough.

\- I think we should date, Carrie says.

\- I know! (And then Quinn sits back at his computer and begins to type something with a sort of gleeful anger. He sends it, and chuckles.) Ha! I know one incompetent accountant who’s going to have a surprise tomorrow morning. 

\- Quinn.

\- Sorry, you were saying? 

Carrie is a stubborn woman.

\- I said, I think we should date.

\- And I think these chips are stale. 

Carrie crosses her arms, and waits patiently for his reaction.

\- Date, like… Like, dating? Quinn finally adds. What do you mean exactly? I wonder if I have olives somewhere. I think I have a jar.

Come. On. He’s doing this on purpose. 

\- I mean, the official definition of dating, Carrie explains. Going out to dinner, talking, having sex, then setting another date and then doing it again.

\- But do you mean, as a friends with benefits thing? Quinn says, while looking through the cupboards. (Are you reading this? WHILE LOOKING THROUGH THE CUPBOARDS.) Or with romantic expectations? Ha! Found it!

He has an olive jar in his hands. Yeah. That man? That man never even thought of a romantic line in his life. On the real letter Quinn prepared before leaving for Syria, he had written “Cheerio, Carrie!” and Dar Adal invented the rest. 

\- Well, I don’t know, Carrie seethes (she’s trying to keep her cool, but the exasperation is sipping through.) What would you like?

\- Black olives?

\- Quinn, she says, very calmly, if you’re not interested, just say so.

\- I am interested.

Uh.

Imagine that.

He’s eating his (green) olives, leaning upon the kitchen wall, in a very relaxed way. Carrie is watching him, thinking. With – a slight suspicion – you remember, a few lines ago, when she was angry and she was thinking “Come. On. He’s doing this on purpose”? 

Well, maybe he is. Maybe he was – doing this on purpose. Maybe he was stalling. To give himself time to think. 

But the suspicion fades away – because Quinn looks so cool and smiling and unruffled, right now, with his blue shirt and his olives – at least, Carrie thinks, she has succeeded to distract him from his computer. Thank heavens for small victories.

He gestures with his jar of olives in her general direction.

\- Oh, so that’s why you’re in a black dress with heels and… stuff.

\- Yes, she answers, exasperated again.

\- It’s nice.

She laughs.

\- I should go, she says, standing up.

\- No.

He puts the olives back in the cupboard, and walks to the couch.

\- Let’s sit down a minute. 

Carrie obeys, kind of curious.

\- I’m curious, he asks. (See? Ironic.) Why – are you asking me this – right now? What changed?

\- I have been interested for a while, she says, looking right at him.

Yes, they’ve been pretty sincere with each other, this last year, and she doesn’t see why she should change.

\- Really?

\- Yes. But I liked the relationship we had, so I didn’t want to risk it.

\- So, Quinn asks, slowly – again, what changed?

Carrie shrugs. And smile.

\- I got tired of waiting and decided – what the hell.

He laughs, and there is admiration and tenderness in his eyes – it’s not new, she sees it from time to time, it looks really good on him.

\- “What the hell is” an excellent motive.

\- I always thought so.

\- So, what the hell, he says, and he kisses her – they’re kissing – she’s half laughing – he kind of laughs too, and it’s great – kissing and laughing, and he comments:

\- Something like that?

\- Yes. Let’s try it again.

\- What the hell, he says, and he says it again a few minutes after when he unzips her dress, and then he says it again when he unhooks her bra (“Tell me when it gets old”, he whispers, but she just shakes her head, smiling. “I like it”) and then they get naked and he says it again twice, I’ll let you guess when.

Anyway – the sex is great. And when they begin to doze off together on the uncomfortable couch and that he says – “What the hell – let’s go sleep on the bed”, it's kind of perfect.

In the morning, Quinn makes coffee – it feels very natural, being here in his kitchen – it happened hundreds of times, except they didn’t have sex just before. He’s humming, making breakfast, Carrie sips her coffee thinking – about the letter again – of course, she was not being literal, with this Dar Adal thing. Of course she knows Quinn’s written the letter, for real. It’s his handwriting and everything. But you know, it’s still – not the same guy, in a metaphorical way. It’s like there are two Quinns. There is the mysterious, “madly in love - false glimmer - we never happened” kind of guy. And there’s this guy, the one making eggs right now, the one who is happy in a “sure sex with Carrie just happened it’s not a big deal but cool, you know, let’s eat bacon” kind of way. Whatever Quinn felt years ago, it’s gone, but Carrie doesn’t feel bad about it, because why would she? The night was great. This morning is great. This new Quinn (not the letter Quinn) is great. 

Quinn comes to dinner at her house the next day, they spend a pleasant evening with Frannie, and it feels like totally normal, he’s acting normal, she’s acting normal, except after, when Frannie’s in bed she asks him if he wants to stay and watch a movie, he says sure, and as soon as they’re on the couch he says “What the hell” and begins to nibble her neck. 

Then he stops and asks:

\- Still not old? The “What the hell” thing?

\- I’m fine with it, Carrie answers, and then they make out while watching Alien, the first one, it’s a great movie for making out because nothing happens for, like, 99% of the time. 

Near the end, Quinn says:

\- That was a great idea of yours, that dating thing.

Carrie yawns and smiles and stretches like a cat.

\- Yeah it was.

Then, life goes on. They keep on dating. It’s just… perfectly normal, perfectly natural. She has plenty of work, but she has a great nanny, and sometimes Quinn drives her to work, his business is doing fine, he’s perfectly charming and sophisticated with his clients and then he swears “like a drunken sailor on leave who just caught crabs” (his expression), especially when he fights with his accountant or with Rob. He is her date at the UN parties, she’s his date at pizza nights at his apartment. 

Carrie kind of likes Rob now. He’s an ass but he says what he means, all the time, and “not caring about what other people think” is always a plus in Carrie’s book. Watching Rob and Quinn fight about the business or hearing them fight on the phone is so great, she could almost bring popcorn.

Carrie’s really, really happy. 

Sometimes she thinks, again, “That guy? That guy never wrote any fucking letter” because they never say anything romantic, ever, it’s like… What is it like, really? A friends with benefits thing? In theory, yes, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. It feels more like they skipped the romantic part of the relationship to just go directly to the part where it’s settled. Where it could go on forever. Where it’s routine – but a marvelous, perfect, regular, deeply happy routine.

Ok, well, she’ll never reconcile the two of them in her head, Carrie thinks. The Quinn who wrote the letter, and this guy right there. Doesn’t really matter.

And then.

And then – well, there’s no epiphany. There is no realization moment. It’s just – time passes, you know, and they’re getting more and more… intertwined. Spending most of their nights together – generally at her house, because of Frannie, but they also sleep at his place whenever they can. She’d love the three of them to go traveling, and he’s ok with it, but realistically, with her job and his firm they don’t have the time, but it’s great even thinking about it – knowing it’s possible. On week-ends – well on week-ends, they mostly work, but from home, together, and months pass and Carrie begins to see it – the change, in him, it’s subtle – almost imperceptible – it’s nothing he says – it’s how he acts, a little more tender, a little more… there’s this light in his eyes, when he looks at her, the way he smiles sometimes – that’s all. It’s like he let his guard down, except she didn’t realize there was any guard to begin with, but – yes, there’s a difference. She feels loved, even if there’s no word on this subject, ever, but she grows curious again, and she’s Carrie, so when did she ever, ever, let sleeping letters lie?

So one day. 

One evening. Six months after they began dating. They’re in bed, at his apartment, Frannie is spending a week with Maggie and her cousins. They’re cozy, happy. Both reading, except Carrie is not reading, she’s watching him read, he has his arm around her, he’s stroking absently the back of her neck.

What the hell.

\- Hey, you know, she says, there’s something we never talked about.

\- Mmm?

\- When you were in a coma, in Germany… There was a day Dar Adal came to see you… and we really thought you were dead, or, you know – that you would never recover.

\- Does that cheerful story has a point? Quinn says, putting his ipad down. 

\- Kind of. Because then Dar Adal gave me the letter you wrote to me, when you left for Syria – making me your beneficiary – and I read it.

\- Oh, really? I don’t even recall what I wrote then, he says, and he furrows his brow, trying to…

... remember… 

Wait for it, Carrie thinks. One… Two… Three… And... He’s got it. There it is – the realization – and horror – in his eyes. He covers it well, she thinks, he lowers his gaze (he can’t look at her), he pretends to notice something on his ipad, he does something with his e-mail, he puts the ipad on the night table, he turns off the light and he lies down – well played, but when you sleep with someone, things change, Carrie knows him very very well now – for instance: the thing with the jar of olives? Going through the cupboards? If it was happening now, she would never have been fooled.

She lies down in the dark, near him. She knows his eyes are open. She just waits.

\- So… you knew, he said. All this time.

Ok. That’s an interesting – and informative – reaction.

\- Knew what?

\- Come on, Carrie.

\- I didn’t – I don’t – know anything. What the letter told me is that you had been interested once. Two years prior. That’s all. 

Silence.

\- Can we turn the lights on? she asks. It feels weird.

He doesn’t answer, but as he doesn’t object either, she does turn on the lights. He doesn’t seem different, he seems thoughtful, he’s watching the ceiling or something.

\- You lied to me for a year, he says slowly. No, two years. All that time in the hospital… and now…

\- What? (She rises up on her elbows.) No. What are you talking about? No. I read the letter, but after that, you didn’t seem interested at all… So I – dismissed it – I mean, not dismissed it, but I thought that you had – completely changed your mind. 

Silence again.

\- But that’s why you asked me out six months ago? Quinn finally asks.

Carrie lies down again, watches the ceiling too.

\- Shit. Are we being totally truthful and everything?

\- You started it.

\- Ok. Yes. It’s why. I mean, I really dismissed it. But then – I was interested – in you – and I thought – well, maybe there’s still something there? But – I really didn’t know.

\- Ok, he answers, slowly.

Silence. Then she says:

\- So, you really wrote it then.

His turn to rise up on his elbows – he stares at her with a puzzled expression.

\- What do you mean?

Carrie explains, a little flustered.

\- Ok. I know it’s going to sound weird, and irrational, but again, you seemed so not interested – and since we’ve been dating, you seemed so… casual with it all, that… It’s ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I thought it was all – a misunderstanding somehow, and that you never… wrote that letter… (She chuckles.) I decided Dar Adal wrote it, and that it was just a weird conspiracy.

\- Dar Adal? Your mind goes to weird places sometimes.

\- Is it news?

\- No. But still. 

Silence.

Again, lying down, watching the ceiling. It takes Quinn a good minute to say:

\- Oh, I wrote it all right.

\- And then you were not interested anymore.

\- I was. 

\- But…

\- You were blind.

\- No. No. I was not, Carrie protests. I was paying attention – in the hospital, and in New York too, after. No. That’s not true. You never seemed to… 

\- Ok, Quinn says, after a pause. Ok. In the hospital, I was… You were being supportive. You were helping me, through the reeducation and everything, and you were – there. You were present. So I couldn’t take the risk to… The stakes were too high, I couldn’t say “What the hell” and try something with you and scare you away. I just couldn’t take that chance.

She grabs his hand under the covers. They hold tight.

\- You saved my life there, Carrie, he adds. You really did. I mean – remember the first months? Do you know how many times I thought – I could give myself a morphine overdose – and just end it all? Wouldn’t have been difficult to accomplish…

\- God, she whispers. 

\- I couldn’t… afford to… lose you. That’s why I was being friendly. 

\- You have a strange definition of friendly. I remember, when I said you were acting all emo about your disabilities, and you said I was a heartless bitch.

He smirks.

\- Good times.

Silence.

\- But, says Carrie, after a while. So. It means… In the hospital… You still felt… that way.

\- Yes.

\- Like in the letter.

\- Yes.

\- And now?

Quinn closes his eyes. What the hell.

\- Yes.

Carrie still watches the ceiling. So Dar Adal didn’t write it after all. The two Quinns are merging – the one with the letter and this one – they fit well.

There’s a silence, and after a while he adds:

\- I didn’t think we needed to have this conversation, to be honest. Not about the letter, but about... How I... I thought – especially those last few months – I mean… Didn’t you know?

She holds his hand tighter.

\- Now I do. 

 

(The End!)

 

 

(Change of plans: not the end! There's a second part.) 

-


	9. The One where Quinn Recants the Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sillier.
> 
> (This is the second part of the previous story. You absolutely don't have to read the first part to understand this one, though. The setting is pretty clear.)

Ten minutes later. They’re still in bed, lights on. Carrie has the letter in her hands.

\- … And also, the darkness stuff? Let me read this again: “There was something kinda pulling me back to darkness, I wanted the darkness, I fucking asked for it”... Come on, Quinn - can this be anymore emo?

\- Will you please get rid of that fucking letter?

\- And what about this “I loved you” thing in conclusion? I mean, why past tense? That has bugged me for… I don’t know, the last year and a half. 

\- I was supposed to be dead! Quinn protests. I was writing you in the event of my death! 

\- Yeah, but while you were writing, you were still alive, right? And you were loving me right now, at that moment, so why didn’t you use the present tense?

This has been going on for a while, and Quinn is getting really annoyed.

\- Because I have a working brain? Because I’m actually able to visualize something else than the present moment? Because I was able to anticipate the day you would be reading it and think about what would make sense then?

\- Well it doesn’t make sense. 

\- Oh, I’m sorry. Is my love letter to you not to your satisfaction?

\- It is, it is, I just think it was a little passive aggressive is all.

\- Passive aggressive?

\- Yes! That past tense again! Sorry, but it sounds a little like… “I loved you”, but now it’s over, too bad for you Carrie, it’s all your fault anyway, you don’t know what you missed, now I’m dead, nyark nyark, aren’t you sorry, nyark.

\- It _was_ all your fault.

\- No, it was not, and also, the world wants to know… Are you a creature of darkness or are you a beacon of light? Cause the concepts are pretty contradictory!

\- Ok, that’s enough.

\- I’m just saying, please make up your mind! 

\- Enough. You know what Carrie?

\- What? 

\- Don’t move.

\- What are you doing?

\- I’m getting paper. 

\- What? Why?

\- Just let me… There. There’s your piece of paper, there’s your pen, now write.

\- Write what?

\- Oh it’s so easy to write this stuff, right? Well, write.

\- What? 

\- A love letter. To me. Now. 

Carrie instantly panics.

\- What? I can’t… I… I don’t…

\- Oh, you can criticize, but you can’t do it?

\- I… 

\- You can be all superior and bitchy but you can’t actually do the work?

\- I was not…

\- Write.

\- Ok, ok! Geez! Don’t… Stop watching me!

\- Write.

\- I can’t concentrate with you being here… all… arms crossed and vengeful and… very… “the wrath of Zeus” and…

\- Write.

\- Go away.

\- Write.

\- Fine! Then shut the hell up, Quinn!

\- You’re the one blabbering.

\- Well you’re the one…

\- Fucking write.

He’s still staring at her, sitting on the bed, still arms crossed, still looking like “now fire is going to rain on the twin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah where people committed the awful sin of NOT WRITING LETTERS” and damn, shit, so she writes, and gives him back the paper with an exasperated sigh.

\- There.

Quinn reads.

\- “You look pretty.”

\- Yes.

\- That’s what you wrote.

\- Yes.

\- “You look pretty.”

\- Well, you do.

\- That’s not a letter.

\- Yes it is.

\- That’s one line.

\- But a significant one. 

Quinn sighs.

\- I don’t even know where to start. First, the word is “handsome”.

\- Oh, is it the whole “atrocious artichoke” debate again? Because despite what you say, you can use atrocious” with…

\- It’s “handsome”. I’m handsome.

\- Yes, you are pretty handsome. See?

\- This is not a love letter.

\- I can’t write that stuff! I just can’t, Quinn! It’s not me! And anyway, why would I write a love letter to you now? Yours is like a century old, and it’s not like you made any recent declaration of love to me…

\- I. Just. Fucking. Did. Like, twelve minutes ago. _(In the first part of this story, gentle reader.)_

\- You didn’t say exactly…

\- Buy a brain. And also, you know where I said it? You know where I made a love declaration to you?

\- Where?

Quinn leans toward her, his eyes very dark.

\- In. the. Fucking. Letter. Now, write.

\- Well, Carrie mutters, I can’t write this stuff for shit.

\- Great. I don’t care. You’d better learn. Because you’re not leaving this bedroom until you do. 

\- What? Quinn! Where are you going?

\- To make coffee.

\- I’m not writing love letters under duress! Carrie shouts while he’s leaving the room. I’m being coerced! It will never hold before a judge! 

\- Just leave the fucking judge to me! he shouts back, whatever that means, and then he furiously begins to make coffee while the shouting match goes on (she’s still in the bedroom).

\- I’m not writing you any fucking letter! 

\- You’d better fucking do!

\- I won’t do it! And you’re not keeping me here against my will! What you’re gonna do if I want to leave? Stop me?

\- Don’t think I won’t!

\- Oh, like you can!

\- Oh, yes I can!

\- Not anymore!

That’s nice.

\- Yeah I bloody fucking hell still can!

\- Well, I don’t care, I’m shooting my way out! I know you have a gun here somewhere… Is it in the closet…? Or is it here in the…

What the hell? He runs back to the bedroom – she’s still on the bed, she has not moved, she’s just sitting there on the covers, chuckling.

\- God, he breathes. 

\- I wrote you something.

He takes the paper, and reads:

\- “You’re a dick.” Really, Carrie? That’s mature.

\- Just the truth.

\- Well you’re a bitch.

\- Where is my coffee?

\- It’s not for you.

\- For who then?

\- For me. You’ll get coffee when you’ve written me a fucking letter. 

Carrie crosses her arms.

\- I can’t do it. No, actually, you know what? I could, but I won’t.

\- Interesting new angle. 

\- I won’t, because I’m mad about what you said earlier.

\- Which is?

\- That it was my fault if we didn’t get together, that time, just before the letter.

\- Whatever. You’re just stalling.

\- And I want to know why you left for Syria.

\- Oh now you want to discuss why I left for Syria – three – no, four years ago? Right now, tonight, at this precise moment, instead of writing a letter?

\- Yes. It was a pivotal point of our relationship, and you broke my heart, and I was so hurt, Quinn, and you know, just thinking about it I…

\- This is such a load of bullshit I can’t even tell you.

\- The reasons for your departure, I believe, are essential to…

\- I’ll tell you the reasons. Oh, but… Hey! No! You know what, Carrie? I know where the reasons are stated.

\- Where?

He leans towards her (again).

\- In. The. Fucking. Letter! 

\- Fine, fine, FINE!!! Carrie says. Well, I want coffee. Before I begin.

\- No.

\- I can’t write if I don’t…

\- Ok. Ok. I’m sick of this, Carrie. You know what – that’s over. Game over. I don’t want your fucking letter.

\- Oh thank God.

\- In fact, I recant mine.

\- What? You can’t do that!

\- Of course I can.

\- You can’t recant a love letter. 

\- Yeah I can. Give it to me!

\- What? No. Why? No.

\- So I can destroy it. By the way what I said earlier, Carrie? Forget it too. I changed my mind. I never loved you and I certainly never will and that’s because you’re such. A. Fucking. Bitch!

\- Oh, and that’s mature? That’s a mature attitude? And is “You’re a bitch” your go to insult? Because it’s getting repetitive and… No… No, you can’t have it – no! Don’t try to… Let me go… Quinn, let me go… Let me… It’s my letter now it’s not yours anymore it’s… No! NO! QUINN! Give it back to me give it back to me no no no NO NO DON’T DESTROY IT DON’T PLEASE DON’T QUINN DON’T… God. God. God. Oh my God. Shit. God. You really scared me half to death here.

\- Fine. Take it back. Take back your stupid letter.

\- God. Thank you, Carrie whispers. Thank you. You know, I really need to know where you’re hiding your gun. 

\- Why?

\- For when you pull crazy shit like this?

\- Yeah? Then I certainly won’t tell you. 

\- Shit, you almost gave me a heart attack.

\- Bring your own fucking gun next time.

\- Believe me I certainly will. 

\- Wonderful. Just peachy.

\- Will there be a next time?

\- What do you mean?

\- Are we breaking up, Quinn? Cause – let’s not. I don’t want to break up. And certainly not over this.

\- I don’t want to break up. 

\- Good. Good. And you’re not… drawing… any stupid conclusions – I mean – from this… incident?

\- What stupid conclusions should I draw?

\- None. I mean… I just… You sometimes draw stupid conclusions, Quinn. From… things.

\- I don’t know, Carrie. You’ve got to admit, it’s a little weird.

\- See? See? I could see it coming. Stupid conclusions. Quinn, listen…

\- What, you couldn’t even write one thing? Even as a joke?

\- I can write plenty of things. Plenty of lovey dovey things. Of course I can.

\- Yeah? Write one.

\- Ok. Ok. Sure. Right now. I’ll do it. Ok. Now. Can I have some coffee first?

\- For fuck sake.

Quinn goes back to the kitchen, the coffee is almost cold now but he reheats two mugs, and when he’s back up Carrie proudly presents the paper. 

Quinn reads.

\- “You have arms.” 

\- Yes.

\- “You have arms”? 

\- Yes. Not arms like “guns” or “bombs” I mean, arms in the anatomical way. You’ve got very nice arms. Very muscular. 

\- Arms.

\- Yes. 

\- I do have arms.

\- They’re great. They’re very sexy. Yours forearms, in particular. And your shoulders. Your shoulders are technically part of your arms and ok, Quinn, I know, don’t look at me this way, I know, I can’t do this, ok? I’m sorry but I can’t – I can’t write this… stuff…

Quinn sighs. 

\- Yeah. Ok.

\- Are you mad?

\- I’m not mad. It’s fine. 

\- It’s not fine. You’re mad at me. I can see it. You’re not letting me off the hook.

\- What hook? There’s no hook. I’m not mad at you.

\- I know you’re mad. Listen, I can’t write, but I can say… things…

\- I can’t wait.

\- See? You’re mad.

\- I’m. Not. Mad.

\- Listen, Quinn. When I was with Brody…

Ooh… dangerous ground. His eyes have become blacker than Carrie has seen them for a long, long time. Damn. Didn’t that man use to be a killer or something?

\- Not a good start, Carrie.

She takes a deep breath.

\- When I was with Brody, I said stuff to him, but it was all – a bunch of lies, you know? Or – no it was worse, actually, because it was not a bunch of lies, it was all true, I did… I did love him, but when I was telling him, I was using it against him, to manipulate him – he was doing the same fucking thing and… Now, for me, those kind of words are just – poisoned, now, I guess. Venomous.

Quinn looks away. Then he shakes his head.

\- God you’re messed up.

\- Like you didn’t know that going in.

\- Yeah, but there are new surprises every day.

\- Yeah, well, like you're not a happy bundle of joyful neuroses.

That makes him chuckle, so Carrie pushes her advantage.

\- Anyway, now, with you, it's going well, you know? These last six months… that’s going really well, and… I think I know you, and that you know me, better than everybody, and I want this relationship to continue… and I think you do too… and, I can’t see myself with anyone else now, and shit, I’m embarrassing myself here.

\- Oh yeah, this is so heartfelt and passionate it’s almost a sonnet. I mean, I’m looking for rhymes.

\- Give me the fucking paper.

He does, Carrie writes “This is going really really well”, then she hands it to him.

\- See?

So – let’s sum up, shall we? This is what’s now written on the sheet of paper:

 _You’re pretty._  
_You’re a dick._  
_You have arms._  
_This is going really really well._

Quinn sighs.

\- I will cherish it always.

\- Oh, fuck you, you know what I mean, Carrie grumbles.

He smiles.

\- Yeah. I think I do. 

He sits on the bed again, he’s still smiling, and she takes his hand.

\- So I’m off the hook? Carrie asks.

\- There was no hook.

\- But I am off it?

\- You’re off your imaginary hook.

\- You’re sure? Because I feel like there’s still… 

\- There’s not.

\- I feel like there's still a minuscule hook…

\- There’s not. Come here.

They lie down again, she puts her head on his shoulder, she closes her eyes. 

\- You know what part of the letter I really like? she says, after a while.

\- Mmm?

\- The end. The “Yours forever now.” I love it.

\- The what?

\- “Yours forever now”?

\- Did I write that? I didn’t write that.

\- You did.

\- No I didn’t.

\- Yes you did.

\- No I didn’t.

\- Yes you did, in your totally emo letter, yes you did.

\- You like that “emo” word, don’t you?

\- As much as you like to say I’m a bitch. And you did write it, Quinn, you did.

\- Let me see.

\- What, wait, you’re not going to… hurt the letter, are you?

\- No, Carrie, I’m not going to “hurt” the letter. Just give it to me. Ok. Mm. Yeah, you’re right, it is pretty emo.

\- Yeah, this text didn’t really seem like you – that’s why I had doubts for a while…

\- It just proves you don’t know me as well as you think you do. I have layers. Contrary to some.

\- I have fucking layers. It’s not because I don’t write bizarre letters about darkness that…

\- Hey, I was right! Quinn exclaims. I didn’t write it! I didn’t write “Yours forever, now.” I wrote: “Yours for always, now.”

\- Potato.

\- What? No. It’s completely different. 

\- Oh my God you are such a guy! Of course, you must always be right about everything…

\- Yes, wanting to be always right is exclusively a masculine trait, which you don’t share at all. Now, let me explain to you, Carrie, how different words can have different significances – as if it was, you know, one of the aspects, even, one could say, one of the goals of language…

\- Please keep on patronizing me. That will get you more love letters.

\- … and how the word “Forever” has a sort of spiritual significance - while “Always” is more grounded – and realistic? “Forever” alludes to the afterlife, while “Always” is more connected to the concept of death. Do you get it?

\- Yes, I totally get it, I totally get how you’re making up a load of pseudo intellectual crap. And now, give me back my letter. 

\- You’re giving orders now?

\- Yes.

\- Then I’m giving orders too. Kiss me.

\- Fine. Ok see…, Carrie says, after a while (and after taking back the letter), I’m putting it in my purse, and let’s be clear, you don’t have the right to touch my purse, or to go through it, ever. Do you get it? 

\- You think I don’t have the right to touch your purse. I get it.

\- That’s not at all transparent. I don’t care. You’ve been warned.

\- I have. 

\- You know, Carrie muses, after a minute, I could write that. To you. 

\- Write what?

\- This… sentence. To you. The one we talked about. The one we just had that debate about. With “always” instead of "forever", and, stuff. Because that’s what I wanted to say, with my speech, earlier, about the future and everything, and so, this sentence, it kind of sums up how I feel… now… about you… See?

Quinn rises up before looking at her with a very amused look.

\- You can’t say it.

\- What?

\- You can’t say it. You said that sentence aloud a dozen times since we began to argue about it, but now that you’re the one who is supposed to… think it, or feel it, or own it, you can’t say it aloud anymore.

\- Hey, I have my… problems, you have yours, don’t fucking gloat. And no, I can’t say it, but I can write it.

\- That’s completely crazy, Quinn comments, lying down on the pillows again. The best thing you could come up with earlier was “You have arms” and now you’re ready to write this? To me?

\- Yeah – cause that’s like – I don’t know. That’s… I don’t know. Just give me my letter, ok?

\- What letter?

\- The piece of paper? With the “You’re a dick” and the rest?

\- Yeah. That’s not a letter. That’s – I don’t even have a definition.

\- Just give me the fucking thing. And the pen. There. See? There. I wrote it.

\- You actually did. 

\- So?

\- It’s a little emo.

\- Oh, you’re funny, Quinn.

But now he’s looking at her, with this – smile – and this – look – and – yes. This is what she wanted. This is what she likes. (What she loves.)

When he’s looking at her that way. 

\- _Now_ you’re off the hook, he says.

\- Ha! I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was still a hook!

\- There may have been a tiny hook left.

\- But it’s gone?

\- Vanished. No more hooks, he whispers, leaning closer, and now they’re kissing, for a long time, and then they’re doing stuff, and I’m not gonna describe “stuff”, because really, nobody’s interested, I mean, who wants to hear or read or see “stuff”? Nobody, that’s who. 

Anyway, after, they’re in each other arms, she waits for him to begin to drift to sleep, and then she whispers in his ear:

\- "I've been pulled back to daaarkness…"

\- Ok, that’s enough, he says – and he jumps off the bed, disabilities my ass, it’s like he wasn’t even sleeping at all, he’s faster than light and on the other side of the room in a nanosecond while she’s screaming:

\- Don’t touch it! You can’t touch it! Don’t you dare touch my purse! Don’t you dare… Quinn! Don’t! Don’t! Quinn don't touch that fucking letter, don't touch it or I swear I'll...

\- Too late. I recant it. See? See? This, all this, here... It is not true anymore. I renounce it. I forswear it. I...

\- You can't. You just can't! You can't recant a letter with "forever" on it!!! By fucking definition!!! You can't recant _forever_!! Forever is forever!!!

\- "For always"!! And yes I can!!

\- No you can't!!

\- Yes I can!!

\- No you can't!! Damn. Where is that fucking gun? 

 

 

(The End.)

 

 

 

 

Annex: The letter.

 

 _Carrie - I guess I'm done and we never happened. I'm not one for words but they are coming now._  
_I don't believe in fate, or destiny or horoscopes but I can't say I'm surprised things turned out this way. I always felt there was something kinda pulling me back to darkness, does that make sense? but I wasn't allowed a real life or a real love - that was for normal people._  
_With you I thought, ah maybe, just maybe but I know now that was a false glimmer. I'm used to those, they happen all the time in the desert but this one got to me and here's the thing, this death, this end of me is exactly what should've happened. I wanted the darkness, I fuckin' asked for it._  
_It has me now so don't put a star on the wall for me, don't say some dumb speech just think of me as a light on the headlands, a beacon steering you clear of the rocks._  
_I loved you._  
_Yours for always now - Quinn_


	10. The One for Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I have no excuse for this. So I’m taking Valentine’s Day (a very late Valentine’s Day) as a pretext, but really, no excuse.
> 
> Inspired by Ohgress fic “Another Reunion”, and with her permission.

He wakes up for the first time. He looks at her for the first time. 

She is holding his hand, asleep in the chair, near his hospital bed.

It's not the first time, at all. He’s been awake for months, he’s been intelligible for weeks, they have done reeducation, speech therapy, he has gone through three different treatments, but it didn’t really… register before. He wasn’t really completely present before. 

Reality was a hazy dream, and he was floating in it.

But right now – when he opens his eyes – in the middle of this cold winter afternoon – in the hospital - he is all there, for the first time.

Yes, she is sleeping in his bedroom, holding his hand, and he stares at her, trying to make sense of the situation. 

His memories are a puzzle, the farthest they are the more blurry they become. He has been asleep… In a hospital… Another hospital…

_\- Yes, he should be able to hear you now._

_\- Quinn? Listen. It’s me. It’s me, Carrie. We’re moving you to New York, and I can’t be here… with you… during the trip… But I’ll meet you there… Do you, er… Quinn? Do you understand me? I don’t think he… I don’t think he’s hearing me…_

_\- No, he might. But he might not have a way to show you that he’s listening._

_  
Later. Much later. There had been a plane. Maybe._

_\- He squeezed my hand. I think he squeezed my hand._

_\- That’s a good sign, Ms Mathison. Try asking him something?_

_\- Quinn, it’s me. It’s… me, Carrie. Do you… Do you hear me? I… I think he just… squeezed again._

_\- See? He’s getting better every day._

_\- Quinn, do you know who I am? Good. He just… Good. That’s good. He just did it again. I... Sorry. Sorry, doctor._

_\- You won’t be the first to cry in here, believe me, Ms Mathison._

_\- But he’s not opening his eyes. Is it normal, that he’s not opening his eyes?_

_\- You have a way to communicate now. Don’t be impatient._

_He’s not letting go of her hand. Ever._

 

Then, it’s all a mess of conflicted images – once he’s in a wheelchair, his eyes are open, an unpleasant nurse is yelling at him, he’s yelling back, someone is laughing (not Carrie, maybe Dar Adal).

Then they’re making him walk, and talk. They are asking questions – he answers, generally logical answers, but he knows he’s not out of dreamland yet. Days don’t… follow. Events don’t make chronological sense. They’re just pieces of a broken glass.

She’s here, often – he doesn’t know how often, or how to make sense of it. 

_She’s holding his hand – and he holds tight. She strokes his back, his hands, his wrists, he’s in the wheelchair again, she leans towards him to rearrange his gown and he…_

Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God. 

What the hell did he do?

Carrie is still asleep in the chair – fortunately – because he just realized – he’s lying on the pillows, eyes wide open. He just realized what he did. That was – what – weeks ago? Months ago? When everything was still in this weird temporal fog?

_He’s in the wheelchair again, she leans toward him, he put both his hands around her neck, draws her to him and he kisses her._

Oh my God did he really do that? How long ago was that? Weeks, at least, maybe more. Maybe that didn’t happen. Maybe he dreamed it, he was delirious – but he sees Carrie's face, her shy smile, she detached politely from him – God. No. That was real. That was – Oh my God. She was pleasant and polite about it, but he could hang himself with shame, right now.

She’s still asleep. Thank God. How can he face her when she wakes up?

What else? 

God, so many embarrassing things – he closes his eyes again – he tries to remember – so many things. In his disconnected state, he had no shame, no distance, so they… er, touched a lot. He leaned on her all the time, he crumbled in her arms, she held him close – again, thinking of all this, he just wants to die of shame, right here, right now. Ok. He needs a plan, quickly – well, the most simple plan really – he’ll just pretend he doesn’t remember anything – then he’ll tell her to go away – God. He’ll yell at her to go away. 

God.

What else?

Two, three weeks ago? _He’s in Carrie’s arms in the corridor. The yellow one. They’re both standing, it’s after reeducation, he almost fell, she’s holding him, and he whispers… in her ear…_

Oh fuck. Fuck. No. That has to be a dream. Please, please God. No. That has to be an hallucination. Please, he didn’t say that – to her – please. 

In the chair, Carrie moves, panic rises, remember the plan, the plan is you don’t remember anything and there – there, she’s awake, she’s looking at him.

Still holding his hand.

\- Hey, she says.

Smiling.

Tell her to go away, he thinks. 

Instead he asks:

\- We’re in New York?

\- Yes, she says. 

Holding his hand tighter.

The problem is, if he tells her to go, then she won’t hold his hand anymore.

\- Listen, Carrie, I know I asked you these questions before, he said – his voice is strained, his throat hurts. 

She looks worried.

\- Maybe you shouldn’t talk that much…

\- No, Carrie… I just… It didn’t register before. Your answers, I mean. Now, I think… I think they will register.

She half rises, staring at him.

\- You look different. You’re looking at me differently.

\- Yes, I am… here… I am all here, now, I think. 

\- Fuck, says Carrie. Fuck. 

And she begins to cry, he puts his second hand on hers, she does too, now they’re just holding both hands, staring at each other… (The plan. Remember the plan. You don’t remember anything. You deny everything. Oh, and also, you tell her to go away. You yell at her to go away. Yeah, this part of the plan… He already knows he’s not going to follow that part of the plan.)

\- What happened? How the fuck am I still alive?

\- You infiltrated a terrorist cell…

\- No, I – I get... that part. (His voice breaks). I mean. What happened. After.

\- Oh my God Quinn I beg you, please stop talking.

Carrie gets her i-pad so he can type. After, she explains:

\- Astrid and I – we found you (he gives her a weird look) – and then you were in the hospital in Berlin, and things were – er – really bad. But then you got better, and we transferred you back here.

\- How long? (he types)

\- Almost six months.

\- Fuck. (he types), and for some reason that really makes her laugh.

And then, there’s a silence. A long silence. A long, loaded silence. She has taken back his hand. She’s looking at him. He’s looking at her. The wheels are turning in her head, the wheels are turning in his head, and they both know the other one is thinking and what the other one is thinking about and… God, what the hell did he do? 

The plan. You don’t remember anything. You deny everything.

\- What do you remember? she whispers.

They’re still looking at each other. 

And she looks so insecure… and scared… and she reaches with her hand, to push back a strand of hair on his brow, and that – breaks him – and he just put both his hands around her neck, draws her to him and kisses her. Just a shy, tentative kiss… and she kisses him back… and then they’re kissing, and he can’t stop. He just can’t stop, he’s going to die if he stops, when they finally stop, she stifles a laugh and put her head on his shoulder.

\- Everything, he manages to say.

It takes a while for her to connect the question and the answer, but then she understands and kisses him again, and that’s all they do for a while.

Finally she says:

\- I have to go. It’s getting late, and I have to get Frannie. Tomorrow I work, but – I’ll be back on Thursday. (He frowns, and she explains:) I arranged things so I can visit you every Tuesday and Thursday, in the afternoon. And sometimes on the week-ends. But I’ll be back as much as I can – I have even more motivation now, she adds, smiling.

\- Can you help me to get up?

She does, and then he’s half standing, half leaning on the bed. He doesn’t want her to go.

\- What work? 

\- The UN, she answers. They’re all morons. (And then they’re kissing again. Just because.)

\- You’re not going to come back, he finally says. Or I’m going to wake up.

She pinches him. Hard.

\- Hey! he tries to yell. Are you fucking... crazy?

She smiles.

\- See? That was real. And this (she kisses him again) is real too. I really have to go now.

He takes her in his arms, and she whispers:

\- I love you.

\- Oh, fuck, he answers. Fuck. So that was real too?

She frowns.

\- Yeah – I mean – I thought you remembered everything?

\- I kind of hoped that was a dream. I really hoped… that I didn’t say that.

\- You did.

\- God, he croaks.

His voice is so tired, again. Carrie looks at him, worried.

\- Is it… not true?

He shrugs. His voice is still broken.

\- Of course it’s true. 

Then she moves to go again, but he’s holding her wrist – if he can have his way, she won’t leave this room, ever. 

So they kiss, again, just because.

\- What other embarrassing things did I do? he finally asks.

\- Well – she thinks for a while – there’s that time, do you remember? When you stood naked in the room, waving your penis at us – you know, me and the nurses, saying “You want a piece of that, Carrie? You know you want a piece of that! Oh yes you do! Come and get a piece of that!”

He’s watching her, aghast. Oh my God oh my God.

\- Oh my God. Oh my God.

Then he sees her face – and tries to hit her. She can’t stop laughing.

\- Oh my God, you are evil, Carrie. I really believed… For a second I really believed… Fuck. I hate you.

\- You were the perfect gentleman, Quinn. And now I really have to go.

He tries to catch her again, but too late – now she’s at the door. 

\- Well, he says (he has to focus all this strength to talk) I really liked the time when you and that nurse – you were in my bed, and we – did all that stuff – that was great.

Carrie stops.

\- Are you joking?

\- No – of course I’m not – I’m sorry, was that a delusion? Because no – I’m sure that was real...

Now Carrie back at his side again, looking very worried.

\- Quinn, please, you have to be serious right now – and tell me the truth - because the doctor said, if you have delusions, it's a bad sign, it might be a sign of…

\- Oh, no, come on, Carrie I know that was real. I remember the exact moment where you got all your clothes off and you had that green bra... with those little cannibal dwarves... and…

Then he begins to chuckle, because of the panicked look on her face, and she finally relaxes, and swears, and hits him – for real, hard, he winces, but he’s still laughing, and she mutters:

\- God. You’re an ass. I hate you. I mean – I know, I had it coming, but God. Shit, Quinn. Stop scaring me, please. You know what, you’re having a brain scan tomorrow, and I’m calling it: you have no brain damage, at all. You can perfectly access all of the totally assholish fucked up parts of your totally assholish fucked up brain. 

He smirks, then he gets all serious, and then he grabs her wrist again, and she doesn’t move, and then thirty seconds pass, and he’s looking at her with a look she has never seen before – totally naked. Totally raw.

\- Don’t go, he whispers.

She stays there, frozen. 

Then she says: 

\- I have to make a phone call.

She does, and then she comes back, and she whispers:

\- I can stay. 

And then they're kissing again, and he's holding her in his arms, and if he can have his way, she won’t leave this room, ever.

 

(The End)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Sorry. That is officially the most fluffy stupid thing I've written.)


	11. The One with Otto (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Frangipani Flower, who needs entertaining, and for T_Zefir, because, Otto!

Dear Reader,

Love sucks. 

It really does. Why on earth did God, Zeus, destiny or any of the unknown powers of the universe decide to create it? This secondary troublesome emotion has no use at all, we could make babies with just a quick physical session, standing up against the garage wall, and not think about it twice. I don’t have to convince you, I’m sure. You’re all romantics – or you wouldn’t be here reading fanfiction. So I’m sure you know that love is the WORST, I’m sure you’ve all experienced, at least once, how it could go horribly wrong - remember that guy (or that gal)? 

But there’s a pretty good chance your fucked up love stories didn’t involve CIA operatives and shootings and gas chambers, so now imagine how Quinn was feeling in the hospital – yes, the hospital again, like last fic, sorry, but this one is in Germany, and this is not a happy chapter – while he was incapacitated and suffering and vomiting blood and not able to walk straight or to talk without blubbering and plenty of other awful stuff I’m not going to describe here, and now imagine on top of that that the woman he loved (and who didn’t love him back) was RIGHT THERE, watching it all. 

It was a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Carrie who was AWOL loving other men all those years when they could have been happy, and who was here right now, at the worst time ever, when there was no hope, no salvation, just endless humiliation and suffering.

He hated her. It was hate, and of course it was love – it varied from hour to hour, minute to minute. Sometimes he looked at her and wanted her to disintegrate, to drop dead somewhere and never come back. Sometimes just the fact that she was here, near him, drove him silently crazy, he closed his eyes and he – stopped time, he erased everything around them – the hospital, those fucking nurses, and all the machinery and there were only the two of them, floating wordlessly into blank space – Carrie didn’t know any of this, she didn’t realize – the hatred and the passion – he hardly communicated with her, he tried to ignore her as much as she could – he did not always succeed, but anyway – it all came to a sort of climax four months after he woke up, in a tiny waiting room in the ophthalmologist service, on sublevel two of the eastern wing.

Quinn was in a wheelchair. He could talk just fine. It was established that he had no serious brain damage but there could be “amusing secondary effects”, had said the obnoxious doctor, the blond one. Carrie was sitting near him while they waited, she sat on a real chair, she and Quinn didn’t talk – they generally didn’t, and now they had been waiting for an hour for the ophthalmologist to call him.

\- I hate that wheelchair, he muttered. I could have walked here.

\- Of course, Carrie said, trying to be supportive. But it would have been… well, it would have taken a while. 

\- Yeah, well, we’ve been waiting a while.

(He coughed. Fucking throat. Fucking everything.) 

\- Quinn, I know it’s hard. But you are getting better. I mean, just think about it… When I saw you on TV, I thought… We all thought…

She shook her head, and that’s where Quinn realized – Carrie had seen this too. She has seen him. In the gas chamber. Vomiting and dying and – everything…

\- We’ve watched the video numerous time, Astrid and I, she added, that’s how we found you, and we thought – you were dead for sure and…

\- Go away.

He had talked in a very low voice, and she stared at him.

\- What?

\- Just go the fuck away, Carrie, he croaked. Just walk the fuck away from my life, now.

She looked at him with dismay.

\- Quinn… What? Why?

He began to scream.

\- GO THE FUCK AWAY GO NOW JUST GO AWAY CARRIE JUST GO THE FUCK AWAY!!

She stood up, horrified, while he began to cough… (fucking throat, fucking voice, fucking everything), and she took a few steps away from him.

\- Quinn please don’t do this. I beg you, don’t do this. Please. 

He just yelled again, while she was stammering:

\- Please. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I swear I will… 

She had tears in her eyes (whatever, don’t fucking care), he yelled at her again, and now he was coughing blood, so Carrie almost ran to the door because she didn’t want him to hurt himself even more, he couldn’t scream anymore, he just stayed here, hating her (and coughing) and hating himself, and she stopped at the entrance just to add:

\- I’m going, Quinn. Don’t… scream again, I swear, I’m going away. But, listen. I hope you change your mind. 

He didn’t answer, just coughed.

\- Please change your mind. Please, please change your mind, Quinn. And when you do, just text me, ok? Just text me and I’ll be back – I’ll be back instantly, I swear…

\- Get out of my life, he managed to utter, and she watched him for a few seconds more.

\- Please change your mind, she repeated, 

… and then she was gone.

He stayed there, on this fucking wheelchair, all alone, shivering. 

**

He lasted ten minutes.

She received the text ten minutes after.

* Come back *, the text said. But there was a snafu with her phone so when she actually read the message she already was at the train station – she instantly doubled back, but when she finally got to the ophthalmologist service more than forty minutes had passed – and she found him still in the waiting room, on a real chair – he has gone out of his wheelchair – he had his head in his hands and when he heard her he turned and looked at her approaching, and his eyes – there was no hope there, none, just absolute despair, and she couldn’t stand it, her heart was in her throat so she sat near him and took his hands in hers, whispering:

\- I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Quinn, I’m sorry, just don’t make me go away again, please, I won’t do it again I don’t know what I’ve done but I won’t do it again…

And he didn’t say anything, just held her hands, averting his eyes. And minutes passed, and the universe shifted, and something snapped in him, and now he was stroking her hands with his thumbs, thinking – you should stop, you should stop, just stop this, right now – but he couldn’t stop, and now he was thinking – it’s ok, it’s still – normal, friendly, stroking her hands (considering the circumstances) (it’s still ok) (you should stop, just stop, just fucking stop), and then she drew nearer, very near, too close, putting her head on his shoulder and now one of his hands was still holding hers and his other hand was around her waist, and he was – still stroking her other hand – (stop this) and he kissed her hair (stop this, stop this, stop this right now) (just once is still friendly, still ok) except he didn’t do it just once, he was doing it multiple times (just fucking stop) her head, her hair, he couldn’t stop, and now he was kissing her cheeks and her temples with a crazy desperation and their lips met by mistake and _she_ began to kiss him, and…

\- Mr Quinn, the doctor will see you now. Get back in the wheelchair, please.

\- I can walk, he said, his voice – well, you couldn’t call it “a voice” anymore.

Carrie intervened.

\- I’ll come with him.

\- No. Just the patient. Can you hurry, please? We don’t have all day.

He walked in – helping himself with his hand on the walls, on the door, wherever he could put them – but no fucking wheelchair - and then he was locked in this little grey room with some intern – and his eyes were looking in the lenses of this fucking machine (“look at the red line” – “thank you, now look at the green dot” – “follow the green dot with your eyes, please do not blink” – “no, don’t move your head” – “follow the green dot” – “a little more to the left”) and all he could think about was Carrie on the other side of the wall, waiting for him – except maybe she wasn’t waiting for him, it was late already, maybe she had to go – take the train, back to Berlin – or maybe she was disgusted by his behavior and she left – yes, she was the one who had begun to kiss him but maybe she just did it because…

\- I can give you your results right now, Mr Quinn. See, the problem is…

He half listened, didn’t ask any follow up questions to get back to her earlier, and at last he was released, and he walked out as fast as he could (not fast), and Carrie was still here – standing, her back on the wall. He walked to her.

\- How did it go? she asked.

\- Yeah, my eyes are shot, he answered, and he began to kiss her – and they just stayed there, alone in this stupid little waiting room, engaged in this particular activity, for the best part of the following hour. 

The strange thing is, they almost didn’t look at each other. It was not really communication, or maybe it was - the only communication, the only one that counted. Carrie wondered if there was a little light in his eyes now, a little hope, she couldn’t bear to look – what if there wasn’t – and it was an eternity before she dared saying:

\- Maybe we should get you back to your room.

\- I’m never getting in this wheelchair again, he muttered, while she took the ophthalmologist file and looked at the results.

\- For fuck sake. Your eyes are not shot. You’re just going to have to wear glasses, like the rest of us puny humans. Poor you.

\- I had perfect vision before.

\- Stop whining.

He chuckled, but it was not happy, it was not mirth, it was – sand grinding on… glass, it broke her heart again, she wondered if he was there somewhere, the other Quinn, the one who was capable of caring, helping, thinking, the one who made friends in Islamabad (before they were all murdered), the one who came back from Pakistan to be with her at her father’s wake. Or was that man lost, drowned in an ocean of bitterness? But maybe someone was still inside, because he put his hand on her shoulder – it was a tender gesture, but it was also a useful one (he needed her to be able to stand) (hey, maybe that was a metaphor), anyway, he was kissing her again, and Carrie remembered it for years, after, this little grey and dark green waiting room, with four chairs, no windows, and the poster of a boat on the wall. Time stopped – she lost herself there too, she forgot the situation and dear reader, if you’re wondering what Carrie was feeling at the moment – was it love, was it empathy, was it the desire to rekindle the light and life in him, by all means necessary – well I can answer that: Carrie didn’t know herself, she just knew what she was doing right now was – a struggle against the forces of death, it sounds cliché, but you know, sometimes, clichés and archetypes and fairy tales and legends and myths are true, in their simplicity. Orpheus did go to hell to get the love of his life back, after all, and maybe if he had kissed her instead of letting her follow, Eurydice would be alive now, making blueberry pancakes to her hubby and ranting because the gas stove didn’t work properly.

\- I’m not sitting in this wheelchair again, he repeated, when they stopped kissing, and Carrie understood it, again, the symbol.

\- Fine. Let’s just walk back, then.

They did – it took an hour and a half. To go to back to the other aisle of the hospital – two different elevators and a maze of corridors. Helpful nurses and other hospital personnel were always stopping by and asking them nicely if they needed help, or a wheelchair, and Carrie had to politely decline each time. They stopped, every five minutes, he sat down or just leaned on her, and they kissed, and the hospital seemed like a maze but they were kissing and slowly climbing their way up (yes, like Orpheus and Eurydice), and something was indeed happening in him, to him, there was something rekindling there, he even looked at Carrie once, and it was not all blackness, there was a tiny prudent small little sliver of… something. 

She felt her heart pounding, she had found him, and now she was holding to him like dear life and she couldn’t bear to lose him again (so it was love, after all ) (all these years and she didn’t really see him, but now, the letter and the memories and the realization of what he did for her and this forced intimacy of the hospital did the trick) (or maybe it was always there and it just exploded, taking her breath away, the day when she thought she had lost him) (or it was always there, period) (or all of the above) (anyway) her phone beeped when they arrived in his corridor, she looked and said:

\- I have to take this.

Quinn nodded.

\- I’ll manage alone the rest of the way, he whispered, with another of those wry smiles (because there were only a few feet left).

Carrie took the call, walking in another part of the service, the conversation lasted for a good fifteen minutes, and when it was over, Dar Adal was there, in the corridor, glaring at her.

\- What the fuck are you doing? he spat.

Carrie glared back.

\- Putting my phone back in my purse.

\- No. What the hell are you doing to my boy, Ms Mathison?

\- I… What do you mean? 

She knew what Adal meant. She was just stalling.

\- They told me you were here all the time. What the hell? What do you think that’s doing to him?

\- I’m just helping with…

\- Oh, don’t play coy with me. You know what I fucking mean. You think I don’t follow the news?

\- I’m here as a friend and…

\- You will kill him. You will get his hopes up, and then he’ll… hear it from someone, and you’ll kill him.

Carrie didn’t answer – she just stood there with a stubborn look on her face – cause that was not true, right? Dar Adal was wrong. She had it under control – she was not going to hurt Quinn – she had a strategy, a plan, sure, exposing the plan to Quinn would take some delicacy, convincing him would be complicated, maybe she would not tell him the whole truth at once, maybe she would just break it to Quinn slowly so that he would agree to the plan piece by piece, not realizing what was really happening before he was so entangled that he couldn’t get out of it – what? Sorry? What are you accusing Carrie of? Being manipulative? Of course not! What are you talking about? She just knew that Quinn was stubborn sometimes, so she had to take some necessary precautions, for his own good. Ok? For Quinn’s sake, not for hers. It was not lying, it was not manipulation, it was... Shit, you people are judgemental.

\- Fuck you, Carrie, Dar Adal said. You’re… you’re bad from him, he seethed, before walking away. 

Carrie couldn’t move for a while, because – when Dar Adal – Dar Adal! - accuses you of being a bad person, you… Ok. But he was wrong. She had this totally under control.

She went back to Quinn's room – and they were there. Three CIA guys, visiting, they had come with Dar Adal, she realized, they were talking to Quinn who was sitting on the bed, and she was at the door, nobody had seen her yet, and suddenly she realized – but too late – the potential for disaster, but yeah – too late, a few seconds too late, because when she stopped at the entrance Fred was already saying:

\- Yeah, she’s engaged to the guy! Can you believe that? Carrie Mathison, always knowing how to play her cards right. He’s an honest to God fucking millionaire, and…

She walked into the room – everybody shut up.

\- Hi, Carrie, Fred said.

\- Hi, Fred, she answered. 

Ice dripping from her voice.

Someone chuckled – Matteo something, he was in Islamabad with them – he was – not awful. 

\- Good to see you, Ms Mathison, Matteo said. And congratulations. For the upcoming nuptials.

\- Thank you, Carrie said, calmly.

She had not been looking at Quinn, Quinn had not been looking at her.

\- Otto During’s an… interesting man, Matteo added.

\- He sure is.

\- Well, we have to go, the third guy said.

Carrie didn’t know him, but yeah, there had been a very, very tense silence, Quinn had clammed up, he was looking somewhere behind Fred, somewhere far away, they left, and then, they were alone in the room, again.

**

Dear Reader, 

Told ya. See? Love sucks. Did you get your hopes up or something? Come on, this is Homeland. Did you think this story was one of those dumb happy fluffy fics where everything turns out well? I hate those. They’re stupid and disgusting and easy and they drip of sugar, yuck. A good story is one where everyone suffer, and you want to hang yourself after. I mean, come on, are you here for champagne and vanilla cookies? How vulgar. Anyway. 

He didn’t look at her – and that was even worse than – anything. She would have taken betrayal, anger, hate, rejection. She could have worked with that, she knew how to work with emotions, but this – this empty state – this was bad. This was very bad.

\- It’s not what you think, she said. Well, it is what you think, but it’s more complicated than it looks.

\- I don’t care, he whispered.

\- Really? You don’t?

Her voice was ironic, and Quinn didn’t answer – didn’t even shrug, or look at her – come on. He should have known. This was Carrie Mathison we were talking about. How could he even believe… Of course she lied. Of course she was not loyal, not sincere, of course she was up to something, of course she… He just shook his head – for him to trust her, to open up to her for even two hours – because, you know, this little intermission had lasted what – two hours? 

How dumb.

\- I can explain, she said.

\- Sure you can.

He laughed again. Still – sand on glass. Awful. 

\- Ok, Carrie said. Ok. Listen. You know the During Foundation. The work I could do there – the work I already began to do, it is all I could ever dream of. I was head of security, but now Otto… Otto During had offered me a partnership. Quinn, are you listening?

He was. Vaguely. Because the problem, was – Quinn closed his eyes for a second – the problem was – he was not back at square one, he was not back to the state he was in yesterday, or even this morning. It was worse now, so much worse.

She was still talking, marriage, partnership, the chance of a lifetime, blah, blah.

Of course he should have known, Carrie had always been an awful person. But now, he had tasted it, you know? The first dose is for free. Love is a drug (you know that, dear reader). Like crack. Or heroin. 

\- … and, see, it’s even more complex, because Otto has a mistress.

\- I’m sorry, what? 

\- Well, Quinn, this is what I’m trying to explain, said Carrie, who looked very nervous. See, er, Otto wants to marry me, because he wants… an alliance, a psychological and professional one, he wants affection and trust and all the works, but… he loves someone. A woman. She is… from Bulgaria, I don’t know anything about her. I’ve never seen her.

Quinn frowned. 

\- So… so what? Why are you telling me this?

\- Well… Er… Come on. Don’t you see me coming, Quinn?

He wasn’t seeing anything, honestly, he was so tired and everything was so black, he couldn’t really focus. He just heard Fred’s voice, again and again, (“an honest to God fucking millionaire”), and every glass window in the galaxy had shattered at the same time (what a weird thought to have).

\- Well, Carrie said again, even more uneasy, Otto wants an open marriage. 

Quinn stared at her for a moment. Then he stood up, walked to the left wall of the room and leaned on the wall there, before closing his eyes, again.

\- So that was your plan, he managed to say. That’s what you had in mind, from the beginning.

\- Yes. Listen, Quinn, I know that this is an unusual… er, deal. A strange deal. But I'm thinking, it could be good, if…

\- Ok, he said. Whatever.

(Like crack. Or heroin. The first dose changes your neuronal paths and then you crave the drug, always, it’s not a psychological addiction, it becomes a fucking physical need, and…)

She stared at him – in disbelief. 

\- You mean… You’re ok with it.

\- Yes.

Carrie kept watching him. That was… too easy. She had expected him to fight like a hawk. That was… good, she guessed, except it was not good, at all. 

\- Quinn…

He shrugged.

\- It’s better than nothing, right? 

He couldn’t take… nothing. He couldn’t go back to – square one, square yesterday, he just… couldn’t.

\- Quinn, again, I know it sounds bad, but…

\- I don’t care. Sure. I’ll take the scraps.

Oh my God no. 

\- No, Quinn. No. 

No, Carrie was almost in tears, she walked to him – so near – almost touching him, but she didn’t dare, but then fuck it, she dared, putting her hands on his arms, on his shoulders, trying desperately to explain:

\- No, Quinn, no, it’s not like that at all it’s the opposite, can’t you see? He’s taking the scraps. He’s not really having me, although I do like him and everything, but he’s not having the real me, it’s you that I love, it’s you that I want, that I care about, I love you, I do, he’s getting the worse side of the deal, I swear…

And then the universe shifted again.

There was a long pause. He took a few steps, away from her. He looked at her, thinking. Another pause. Another step (away from her).

And he said: 

\- Then… no.

Carrie froze.

\- I’m sorry?

He was different. Something had happened. Everything was different, in a few seconds the reality had – rotated, like a gear, and yeah, dear reader, do you know what Quinn looked like, right now?

Like a fucking CIA operative. Pondering a situation.

\- What do you mean, “no”? 

\- I mean, no, Carrie. I refuse your deal.

She was still stunned. He took a chair and sat down. Looking physically exhausted – but not intellectually, at all. 

\- You just said yes, Carrie stammered. You just said yes, you just did. You already accepted.

\- I changed my mind.

What the hell just happened?

\- What? Why?

He smirked.

\- You said you loved me. Just a minute ago.

\- Yes… 

\- Is that true? Or is it part of the play to convince me?

\- It is true, she said, warily.

\- Good. Then, break up with him. Cancel the engagement.

Fuck. Carrie took a deep breath. Fuck. Again – what the hell just happened? Of course, it was progress, incredible progress, from a medical and psychological point of view. She had waited for the return of this Quinn for months. The strong, reflective, I take no shit from anybody kind of Quinn, and he was… back… right now… Materializing from thin air… 

But… God. I mean - great, obviously, good for him, but – let’s be honest here. His weakness was kind of working for her, you know? And now… 

\- I can’t, Quinn.

\- Of course you can.

\- No, I can’t.

\- You take your phone, Carrie, he said, his voice tired again. You say “Otto, I’m sorry, but…”

\- No, I can’t, I can’t! Quinn, are you crazy? This is my chance. This is the chance of my career – no, you know what? It’s not even about my career, it’s about… at last, doing something right… Having some positive influence on the world, on a large scale…

He was staring at her, apparently unmoved. She was almost in tears.

\- Come on, Quinn, you know! You’re the one who showed it to me! What did I do right, in my life, ever? Look at… Islamabad. Look at… what happened, to the CIA. Do you remember those corpses, hundreds of them, lying on the floor? I never prevented anything. I never saved anybody. Sure, yes, the Berlin station – whatever – a few dozens lives - that doesn’t compare… Do you realize all the evil I’ve done? Or the one I didn’t prevent? And now I can… begin to make that right…

She was crying, silently, and there was a long pause, and then he said:

\- I don’t care. Break up with him.

\- Fuck! 

Carrie began to pace up and down the room.

\- Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You just said yes, Quinn. Two minutes ago, you were saying yes.

\- That was two minutes ago. Now I’m saying no.

\- All right, you know what, I lied. I don’t love you. Are we back on yes?

\- Yeah, I think you showed up your hand, here, Carrie.

He began to cough – he had overstrained his voice, she thought, and she had a surge of tenderness (and desperation) and she walked to him but he stood up and raised his hand instantly, saying:

\- Don’t… touch me. (Then he took a deep breath, and added, very calmly:) Actually, you’d better go. Because if you stay here, I know I will… Go away, Carrie. And come back when you’ve broken up with him.

\- You fucker, she muttered.

She did this. With her stupid, dumb love declaration – that’s what you gain for being sincere. She did this, she gave him strength, and now – he was using it against her. 

She crossed her arms. 

\- Do you love me?

\- Why do you want to know? 

\- To use your own argument against you.

\- Well, Quinn said, with a short laugh. Then… I’m not telling.

And it was great, because, the laugh – it was true. It was real laughter, sad, but also real, and Carrie could not but wonder. Comparing him to the man he was this morning. 

She had done this.

\- Accept the deal.

\- Break up with him. 

What a strange feeling – she was heartbroken, but also deliriously happy, to see him – alive – for the first time since he woke up. So, was that love? Being happy for someone even if it hurt your interests? 

\- Break up with him, Carrie, or go away.

Damn. Love sucked. She took her purse.

\- Fine. You have my number, I have yours. As soon as you come to your senses, and accept the deal, send me a text.

\- As soon as you come to your senses, and break up with him, send me a text.

\- God. 

And then, she was gone. She walked to the train station – tears running on her cheeks – pain and joy. He was saved. That man, the one talking to her those last ten minutes – that was someone who was out of danger (psychological danger). She had done it. She dived down into hell, she got Eurydice back, she dragged her to the realm of the living, and then - she - he - fucking turned against her.

She checked her phone. The last text from him was *Come back*, but that was three, four hours ago. The universe had shifted twice till then. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That was Dar Adal’s fault, all of it. If he hadn’t said she was bad for him… then she wouldn’t have panicked when he… she wouldn’t have told him…

The train was coming into the station.

*Have you changed your mind yet?* she typed, quickly. *Do you accept the deal?*

The answer came right away. Maybe he was checking his phone as obsessively as she was.

*No.* he answered. *Have you broken up with him yet?*

*I won’t* she typed, and – the conversation stopped there.

 

(To be continued!)


	12. The One with Otto (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (There will be a third (and final) part.)

Dear Reader,

Two years passed. 

They didn’t see each other during that time. Every two months or so, they texted back and forth. 

Sometimes it was Carrie: * Changed your mind yet? The deal is still on the table! * to which Quinn answered: * Broke up with him yet? *

Sometimes it was Quinn: * Hey, so, single yet? * to which she answered * Ready to be reasonable again? *

And then the answer, from him or from her, was a polite (or rude, or funny) variation on: * Nope. *

Quinn was… fine, I guess. When Carrie had left, he had begun to take his recovery seriously. He worked hard, did all his physical therapy, asked for more. He got books, he got wi-fi, he reconnected with news and the world again. He wanted to live. He didn’t want to drown in anger and depression, or slit his wrists in a moment of weakness. Amazing what a declaration of love from the woman you worship can do to a man with self-esteem issues – to any man, I’d say. Or to any woman. Or to anyone, really. Validation is magic.

There was also the fact that the woman he loved was worthy. You may remember, dear reader, the little speech Carrie had done, in the previous chapter, about wanting to marry Otto and get that partnership at the Foundation to make things right in the world. Well, Quinn had kept a poker face while listening, but the truth is, he found Carrie’s arguments pretty convincing. It made all the difference – knowing she was not marrying that guy for the money, or the status, or the Gucci bags. Not that he should have believed that about Carrie. She had many problems, but being shallow was not one of them. But – at that time – when he has learned the news from Fred – well, that was a pretty dark moment, and he had pretty dark thoughts. 

But then, listening to her speech, he got it. He really did. He almost caved. 

Almost.

When Quinn was out of the hospital, he managed to land on his feet with a half time job at the CIA station and a half time job in an “information firm”… industrial espionage, that’s what it really was. Dar Adal and the American mothership were calling, of course, but he was done with black ops, and black ops were done with him after that tv appearance. 

And he wanted to stay in Berlin. 

Because, you know.

**

The day Carrie married Otto During, Quinn was traveling in Italy, for work. He realized it was that day, that time, when Fred (of course, Fred) commented about it on Twitter.

Quinn was sitting in a nice chair on a nice terrace in nice Café in Florence, drinking a nice cappuccino. He read the tweet, turned off his phone and buried it somewhere deep in his computer bag. He didn’t have any crazy romantic thoughts, like: “Maybe she walked away, from the altar, at the last minute!” Or: “Maybe I should fly there and sweep her off her feet before the honeymoon!”

Of course she was going to get married to Otto. Of course she was not going to run away with him. She was going to stay with that guy and try and save the world, one crazy Foundation financed scheme at a time.

Let’s not lie, it was hard. The cappuccino suddenly tasted like ash. Sure she wanted him – Quinn had chosen to believe that. Hell, he did believe that. Why would she kept insisting with “the deal” if she didn’t? He had nothing to offer her. She didn’t need his protection, his information, anything. No, it had to be true, she really loved him.

But not enough.

He had a choice. He could drown in self-pity, or you know, live. And be happy (Ish). And maybe hope that one day… No. He had to live, period, and not for the crazy hope that maybe one day.

So that’s the resolution he took, and he kept at it – even if five days after Carrie’s wedding (five days was enough time, earlier would have been rude, right?) he sent: * Ready to divorce yet? *

She answered an hour later with a laughing smiley, and then, five minutes later: * The deal still on the table! *

He didn’t answer.

He bought the little firm he was working for. He had money, a lot of it, for all these years he killed people and spent nothing. The firm had bad management, so he became the management. He never actually got out of the CIA, but his martyr image got him a sort of honorary status, and anyway it was important, professionally, to keep contacts there. 

He went to the US to see Dar Adal, who was really happy to see him, and who instantly wanted to use the info Quinn was getting from corporate espionage to good use, good use meaning: Dar Adal use. 

Quinn was fine with it. They made a deal.

He got girlfriends. He got friends. Life was pretty good. 

As I said, two years passed.

**

\- Hey, sometimes, I have the feeling people don’t like me, Otto said.

\- What? Carrie protested. What do you mean? 

They were in bed, reading – not novels, useful stuff, like the news and amusing statistics about cholera. 

Otto shrugged.

\- Bad press. And also, Liza did some polls, and it seems people like the Foundation, and the work we do, but they don’t like me.

\- People have no taste.

\- Yeah, right? 

Carrie laughed, got closer, kissed Otto on the cheek, just below the ear.

\- I like you, she said. And even more now that we’re married.

\- Yes, you know, that’s the whole idea of marriage, Otto explained. It should be, anyway. 

Dear reader, just as an aside: it feels weird, writing a scene where Otto and Carrie are in bed together. It’s just that I’ve written so, so many fics with Carrie and Quinn in the same situation, that this paragraph feels wrong somehow, like – what are you doing, Carrie? This is not how it’s supposed to be!

Anyway… 

Carrie thought for a while.

\- People don’t like me either. Even when I was in the CIA, even when I was doing good work, people kind of… not appreciated me, on a personal level. Except Saul, of course. And, er… Well. Some people. 

Otto smiled.

\- I appreciate you.

\- Clearly, she said, with a little smile, and he laughed again.

\- Yeah, Otto continued, you should see what people say in these polls. You’d think I ate babies in the basement, or something.

\- Do you?

\- Who doesn’t? Other people wish me dead.

\- They’re just jealous of your rugged good looks.

\- That’s exactly what I thought. 

Carrie went back to her statistics, and Otto watched her for a moment.

\- By the way, what happened to that guy? he finally asked.

\- What guy? Carrie said, slowly, not moving her head.

\- You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to. I’m just curious. When I told you about Luba, back when we were engaged, you told me there was another guy, and then, that it might not work out… What happened? 

\- It didn’t work out.

\- Sorry. He doesn’t know what he misses.

\- Clearly, Carrie muttered. 

They both got back to their work. Except now, Carrie couldn’t concentrate. She felt an ache each time she thought about Quinn. And each time, she felt stupid, and surprised by the strength of her reaction. When exactly did all this happen? She was not in love with him for years, although after Islamabad she was feeling – something powerful, and she almost made a life changing decision. But timing sucked, and then she moved on, she really did, or she thought she had, because after… all this craziness with Allison and the kill order, and Quinn’s “death” on TV, and yes, the letter… What happened? Suddenly she was making fierce love declarations to him in his hospital bedroom? And two years after, she was still… thinking about him?

She knew she was able of loving passionately. She had, once, already. (Yes, dear reader, Brody.) So now, that happened again – with Quinn – Carrie honestly didn’t see it coming, except it was much worse than Brody, because it had actually potential, it was not self-destructive, and it could be great, it could be wonderful, and fuck. 

She almost took her phone right now, to send him another * Hey! Changed your mind yet? *, and maybe even * I still love you *, but maybe that was too strong, too dangerous, she didn’t dare, and also, it didn’t feel right with Otto right here in her bed - yes, open marriage, but still.

She turned to Otto.

\- Hey, would our partnership work if we were not married?

He frowned.

\- What do you mean?

\- Well, I know you like me…

\- I more than “like” you, Otto said, smiling.

\- … but in theory, now that you know me so well, now that you trust me, could we have the same work relationship, the same… alliance, if we didn’t sleep together? I mean, you could live with Luba, I could… whatever, but would we still be able to work together the same way? 

Otto thought for a minute.

\- Luba is not a good fit for me, as a partner. As for the rest… No, I don’t think it would work. It would not be the same – loyal relationship.

\- Even now?

\- Even now. It’s not the same, when you’re living with someone. When you share intimacy. You feel that, Carrie, right?

\- I do, she said, slowly. 

Then she put her hand on Otto’s shoulder.

\- Don’t die, right? Even if all those people want you to.

Otto chuckled.

\- Oh, believe me, I have no intention to.

**

Dear Reader, 

Let’s switch to Astrid’s point of view. 

 

_Dinner. Italian. Quinn/Astrid. Friday night._

Quinn: So… any news, from, you know? 

Astrid: And by “you know”, you mean Carrie?

Quinn: Well… You guys are kind of friends now, right?

Astrid: Quinn, I am NOT taking sides in this crazy little war you two are having. 

Quinn: It’s not a war.

Astrid: It’s absurd, it’s dumb, and I am not taking sides.

Quinn: It’s not a war, she’s just having unreasonable demands, and…

Astrid: Quinn, I DO NOT want to talk about it. Carrie’s my friend, and you’re my friend, and…

Quinn: Ok. Fine. Sorry.

 

_Dinner. Lebanese. Carrie/Astrid. Tuesday night._

Carrie: So any news from Quinn? 

Astrid: Carrie, don’t even try. I am NOT taking sides in this conflict. In my opinion, you’re both out of your minds, and this is just… I don’t know, ridiculous. 

Carrie: He’s just being stubborn and unreasonable.

Astrid: Carrie, I DO NOT want to talk about it. 

Carrie: And stupid! I mean, God forbid we should try something a little different! Of course it’s not _his_ work, so he can take the moral high ground there… Well, I hope it’s very lonely on the high ground. I hope it’s windy, and cold... and, I don't know. Slippery.

Astrid: Carrie, I said I didn’t want to…

Carrie: I mean, men, right? Their pride and their dick.

Astrid: For God’s sake, Carrie. I’m sleeping with the guy.

Carrie: What? Still? When? 

Astrid: Two months ago.

Carrie: I hope he was very unhappy.

Astrid: Geez, thanks.

Carrie: No, I mean… You know what I mean. Hey, you know what I’ve done recently? As co-director of the Foundation that Quinn dislikes so much?

Astrid: For God’s sake, Carrie. Again, I don’t want to take sides in…

Carrie: Do you remember what happened in that refugee camp, not the one in Dunkirk, the other one, with the murders and the epidemic? Well we got them out – the During Foundation - all 1500 of them – we negotiated with the Spanish government, the German government and the French government so they would take them in, Otto did a little diplomacy and financial promises and I did a little diplomacy and a little blackmail and I scared a few people I knew to accelerate the process and we fucking got them out. Out of there, into Europe, into safety. One thousand and five hundred refugees – 35% of them children.

Astrid: Wow. 

Carrie: Yes.

Astrid: That’s amazing, Carrie.

Carrie: Yes. And that’s February.

Astrid: Again, wow.

Carrie: So, am I supposed to stop doing this because Mr Peter Quinn doesn’t want to share his toys?

Astrid: Well, I don't know. It's more complicated than that. I mean, when you hear his side, he...

 

_Dinner. Italian. Quinn/Astrid. Monday night._

Astrid: Quinn, you’re being unreasonable.

Quinn: About what?

Astrid: I talked to Carrie last week and…

Quinn: She got to you.

Astrid: Well, yes, I guess, ok, she got to me.

Quinn: For fuck sake, Astrid! You shouldn’t listen to Carrie! She will keep talking louder than you and bully you till she gets what she wants! Don’t listen to her!

Astrid: Yes, I know. I know what she’s like. I’ve experienced it firsthand. But… just listen, ok? Do you want to hear the refugees’ story?

Quinn: No.

Astrid: Well, here’s what happened. 

Quinn: Astrid, I don’t want to…

Astrid: Do you remember what happened in that refugee camp, not the one in Dunkirk, the other one, with the murders and the epidemic?

Quinn: I don’t want to hear the refugees’ story. 

Astrid: Well the During Foundation got them out, and…

So Quinn listened to the refugees’ story, and when Astrid finished, he said, exasperated:

Quinn: She wanted you to tell me this.

Astrid: Of course she did. And I’m happy to oblige. Because she’s right.

Quinn: I don’t fucking care. 

Astrid: Sure you don’t.

Quinn: She can go and save people, I don’t give a damn. She can do it just fine without me

Astrid: Great. Well, I’ve said my piece, I’ll just stop talking about this now. I’m back on not taking sides.

Quinn: I’m not changing my mind. 

Astrid: Good. Whatever.

Quinn: I’m not even listening to this.

Astrid: Fine. Let’s talk about something else.

Quinn: I’m right, and this is just manipulation, and emotional blackmail, and I’m not changing my mind. 

Astrid: Can we talk about something else?

Quinn: Sure. Please. Let’s talk about something else. Cause she’s wrong. And I’m not changing my stance on this. And I really, really don’t give a damn.

Astrid: (sigh)

**

He lasted ten days.

When the seeds of doubts are planted in your soul, they generally grow fast. Also – he wanted to be convinced, of course. As I said, dear reader, life was pretty good – and Quinn was happy. (Ish.) But he wanted more. And the hope that she'd cave first was dwindling. 

Was it crazy – like Astrid said – him holding out? Or was it the right thing, to make Carrie yield, Quinn had always been the one who yielded, and why wasn’t it her turn, this time? But yeah – when he formulated like that – it sounded childish. 1500 refugees, against his fucking pride.

But there were other issues. For example, did she still care about him? After all, he hadn’t seen her in years, and before that, he hadn’t seen her in two years, and – maybe, all this story... it was not real. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he had moved on and didn't know it - maybe it was all a fantasy, something he made up, and was holding on to, to create pain, to punish himself, or maybe _she_ had moved on – it had been a while since he received any text from her, after all – he checked – two months. Two months and a half, exactly, not that long, but you never know. 

After he had tortured himself well enough for four days, he decided he would not think about it for a month, and then take a decision. But then the universe decided to conspire against him. Everywhere he went, he met someone who knew Carrie, or he saw a paper about the During Foundation, or ~~Ott~~... that guy appeared on TV while Quinn was buying coffee, or – stuff like that. Fuck. Saul called – Quinn hadn’t heard from Saul since his recovery, but now he called – and at the end of the conversation he asked if Quinn knew how Carrie was doing – a conspiracy, I’m telling you.

He saw Astrid again, who repeated again she was not taking sides except she was still so clearly taking Carrie’s. It seemed unfair. I mean, Astrid was Quinn’s friend (and more) first, he had dibs. 

Fuck, again.

By the way, dear reader, if you’re wondering which side I’m taking (I, your friendly unreliable narrator), I’m #Team Carrie, all the way. I know you all disapprove, but I don’t care. Just be happy I’m not #Team Otto. Ok, seriously now: I just think happiness is a rare animal, a fleeting chance, and you should just catch it when you can.

Anyway…

This time, it didn't came to a sort of climax in a tiny waiting room in the ophthalmologist service, on sublevel two of the eastern wing, but in a gloomy, grey, huge, official Conference Center. Quinn was getting ready to go, his meeting with a bunch of haughty (but rich) English businessmen was over. He was walking in a corridor when he saw it: a conference hosted by the During Foundation, and on the list of guests was Carrie Mathison-During.

He stared at the grey door for a good fucking five minutes. Two years. He hadn’t seen her in two years.

He came in, discreetly. The room was huge, hundreds of seats, only the five first rows were occupied. There were four experts talking, Quinn quickly realized that Carrie was not a guest, she was the host, she was asking questions and commenting. It was interesting, but Quinn didn’t listen to a word of it. He stayed in a dark corner, just watching her, silently.

After two hours there was an intermission – Carrie stayed at her desk, while the guests walked around and talked to people. Suddenly, Quinn had to know – if they were still playing, if everything was still on the table, so he took his phone and typed:

* Hey, so, single yet? *

She wasn’t looking at her phone, it took a few minutes before she took it and read the text – Quinn was watching her reaction from afar – she smiled, happily, typed something. He received the text instantly: * Nope. What about you? Ready for the deal? *. Then the intermission was over, other guests were talking, Carrie was orchestrating, she didn’t say “fuck” once. 

Still, he was watching her. Then, after an hour, he just typed * Yes *, sat down, and waited.

Of course she didn’t see the text right away – she had no opportunity to look at her phone for the next hour. Then at last the conference was over, but people stayed, talking and negotiating, and Carrie was still at her desk, he saw her check her phone, and freeze. Then she got ready to leave, someone began to talk to her, the room was finally emptying, and the conversation lasted a while; she glanced in the general direction of the door, and she saw him (still sitting there), she didn’t freeze this time, you’d need to know her very well to notice her reaction, she was an ex CIA operative after all, she kept taking to the woman, only, she glanced at Quinn a few times, to check if he was still there, he guessed.

Then the woman walked away and Carrie went to him.

She sat down – they didn’t do anything, there were still people around. 

\- Thank you, she finally whispered.

\- I just can’t believe it.

\- What? 

\- That I’m still so much in love with you, after all of this time, he said - and that was all - the end of the conversation - she couldn’t leave with him right now, she had to talk to the last guests for another hour, so he waited, because what was one hour, after, you know (let’s recap) two years while the Brody situation was unfolding, two years in Syria, more or less, a few months of recovery, and two years of this little war, sure, he could wait sixty minutes.

 

(... to be continued!)


	13. The One with Otto (Part III)

Dear Reader,

This is what you have to know about adulterous relationships.

Fact Number One: nobody cares.

I mean, if you’re a newbie at this game, at first, you’ll feel as if everybody is watching you and be guilty and tense all the time, but – in a European big city at least – nobody gives a damn. You could fuck penguins for all we care. (Though, why penguins? Aren’t they… cold? Yikes. People, please, don’t fuck penguins.)

So nobody cares, nobody notices. Quinn and Carrie met a lot of Carrie’s friends or colleagues when they were in restaurants or having breakfast together in those hipster places that Carrie seemed to like so much now, Carrie just smiled and said “Hi, how are you? This is Peter Quinn.” And everybody smiled and nodded and chatted politely, they just thought he was a business associate, or an American friend visiting, or someone from an NGO discussing a project... or, you know… they just didn’t care.

Fact Number Two: adulterous relationships are great.

We’ll get back to this in a minute.

Fact Number Three: your enemy is time.

We’ll get back to this in a minute also.

Happiness, first. (Fact Number Two). The reasons adulterous relationships are so great are the guilt, the tension, the taboo, the secret, the complications, the “us against the world”, the “it’s so wrong but so delicious” concepts. Now, our heroes’ relationship was a little secret, a little taboo, but not too much, which added to the perfection. There was no real guilt to speak of. It was an open marriage, remember, and Carrie knew Otto had Luba. And Quinn really, really didn’t care what ~~Ott~~ … that guy was thinking anyway. No, the only guilt, really, was Carrie’s guilt, and it was about Quinn and not about Otto, but that’s for later in the game, let’s concentrate on the first year for now, and the first year was awesome. 

The reason they had to hide a little was Carrie’s reputation. The open marriage was certainly not public knowledge, and there was the reputation of the Foundation to consider, so no public display of affection, and they were careful in public places, or when they went in hotels together (generally they just slept at Quinn’s place, he loved it when she was there). And Carrie was busy, so they had little precious time together (which will bring us to “Fact Number Three: your enemy is time” in a moment), so every hour they had together counted, every moment was passionate, fervent. 

Yes, that was what this first year was: passion. When Carrie arrived at Quinn’s home at 4 am, because she had a plane to catch that morning and she lied to Otto about securities measures, so she could leave earlier and they could have one hour together in Quinn’s apartment, and then he drove her to the airport, which he loved too, because then they could talk (about their jobs, and it was great), and then in the airport they generally had time for coffee, and then no kissing good bye, because they could be seen, except after a while Quinn made a game of finding ways around that, and dragged her in discreet corners so they could do things properly – see, I’m telling you, adulterous relationships are wonderful. 

There were also real, official, moments together. Carrie tried to meet Quinn “legally” once a week (not hiding from Otto), spending the night after, because once a week was what Otto had with Luba, so Carrie thought it was fair. Except she was traveling a lot so she missed a lot of her weekly dates with Quinn, and he wanted more, and she wanted more, so they found ways around the rules – thus the airport mornings – and meeting at lunch, or for a short hour between two work things (sometimes for sex, but not always, they were happy just seeing each other), and yes, all this was so romantic, and crazy, and beautiful.

Again: adulterous relationships are amazing.

**

\- I sometimes have this crazy thought, that I am climbing a stairwell, Quinn whispered. 

… when they were in each other arms, in his bed, during one of those stolen dawns. It was cold, they were still naked, they had at least 40 minutes before leaving for the airport – an eternity. 

\- A stairwell?

\- It’s gonna sound crazy.

\- Tell me.

\- It feels like I died, there, in the gas chamber. And then I woke up – and I’ve climbing the stairs ever since. First step: not dying.

\- An important one, Carrie commented.

\- Second step, waking up, and after that… Do you remember that waiting room, in the ophthalmologist service?

\- I don’t think I will ever forget.

\- I suppose that was the third step – Quinn continued – and then recovery, and then getting out of this fucking hospital, and then getting a job, and then getting a social life, and then… getting you.

\- Oh, I am a step in your recovery progress, am I?

\- Yes.

\- Cool. (They kissed for a while, kissing while naked, highly recommended, and then Carrie closed her eyes, remembering how she felt on this day, when it all began.) I get the stairwell comparison. At the time, I thought it was like… 

Ok, she couldn’t say Orpheus and Eurydice – he might be offended by the comparison, or maybe it was that she felt a little silly, having such stupid, romantic thoughts, so she changed it into: 

\- … climbing out of the pits of hell.

\- Very dramatic, Quinn said. I thought more, like a Maslow’s pyramid thing?

\- It works too. (They kissed again, and then Carrie breathed:) I can’t believe we lost two years.

\- What do you mean? he asked, caressing her back.

\- If you had said yes, at the beginning – in the hospital.

Dear reader, he kept stroking her back silently, because, really, what could he say? The truth? The truth was, he thought, if he had said yes, at the time - he would not be alive today. He would have put a bullet in his head – loneliness, despair, the feeling of unworthiness… of being second place, a second thought – nothing, who cares. Yes, he would be dead now – but you don’t say that to the woman you love, because it might be considered a little – intense. A tad scary. Like, she would run for the hills and never come back. 

Being the third wheel in a relationship (when you care – when you care deeply, madly) is hard enough for a normal person. In the state he was at that time – oh yes. Eating a bullet.

\- I don’t think we could have done it earlier, he finally answered. The balance of power wouldn’t have been… well… balanced. I’m strong enough now.

She frowned. 

\- Strong enough to do what? 

\- Leave.

Carrie rose up on her elbows with a very, very unhappy look on her face.

\- What do you mean?

\- Just this.

\- What? Why would you leave? Why? Do you intend to leave? Are you leaving now?

\- For fuck sake, Carrie.

She let herself fall back on the pillows.

\- Yeah, ok. My reaction right now might have been a little intense.

\- A tad scary.

\- Are you running for the hills?

\- I’m walking there... (He saw the look she gave him and laughed.) For fuck sake, again, Carrie. I have no intention of breaking up with you, believe me.

\- But you could?

\- Isn’t it a good thing? That I could?

\- Er, no, Carrie muttered.

\- So you want me to be psychologically unable of ever breaking up with you?

\- Yes. Exactly. In fact – you know what? We are going to establish a binding contract. You are going to sign it – not leaving, not breaking up with me, ever. Does your printer work?

\- And what is your role in this little arrangement, Carrie?

\- Me? I could do whatever I want, of course.

\- The basis of a healthy relationship.

\- I’m glad you agree, Quinn. Let’s draw this contract.

\- Hum, no. And since we are negotiating, I have demands.

\- We are not negotiating. 

\- I want more time, he said, seriously.

She picked up the change of tone and sat down, naked on the bed, he did the same in front of her. 

\- I want more time with you, he repeated. This is not enough.

\- I feel the same, she said, taking his hand. The time we do have together is pretty great, though.

\- Actually, it’s the problem, Quinn explained. It is great, all the time, and I feel like we need… downtime. Doing nothing, but together. Getting acquainted with each other, witnessing the little daily things… Does it make sense?

It did – Carrie averted her eyes – it did make sense, considering it was almost exactly what Otto had said. Dear Reader, let’s quote Otto, in Chapter Two of this story: “It’s not the same, when you’re living with someone. When you share intimacy. You feel that, Carrie, right?” 

So, yes, what Quinn asked made perfect sense, since it was exactly what the other guy was asking of her. Carrie felt the first pangs of guilt – not pangs, really, not even one “pang” yet, maybe just a fleeting touch, a little pinch of cinnamon in her coffee.

\- Maybe it’s what Luba wants also, she muttered.

\- Who’s Luba?

\- Otto’s… girlfriend? You know? From Bulgaria?

\- Yeah, I’m not spending a lot of time wondering about your husband’s mistress.

Carrie frowned.

\- Am I bad for you, Quinn?

\- What? 

She shrugged.

\- Just a… stupid thing Dar Adal said.

\- Come on, Adal loves you. He has a Carrie Mathison shrine. (He thought for a second.) No, Carrie, you are not bad for me. In fact, I have something to tell you.

\- Ok…

\- I’ve contacted Doctors Without Borders, and pitched them an idea. My firm – actually, a subsidiary I created for the occasion – could help them organize their operations by doing a little advanced field preparation, a little… espionage, let’s be clear, working my contacts, telling them if everything’s safe on the ground and advising them how to work the situation before sending their guys in. And also maybe later, helping with the logistics, and security. All that for a symbolic fee – my idea is that the corporate espionage part could finance the second part… What do you think?

\- Oh my God, Quinn, this is great. This is wonderful. This is… In fact, the During Foundation could help you, Carrie said, suddenly excited. It’s exactly the kind of projects we…

\- Er, NO. Thank you, but the During Foundation can go and fuck itself. The During Foundation can fall in a ditch and hurt its head and die. I’m already sharing enough with the During Foundation as it is.

\- Ok, ok, she said, laughing. I get it. Quinn, it’s awesome. 

\- It’s the next step in the stairwell. See? You have a good influence on me.

She blushed a little – it was not really blushing, it was being all – sincere and open and vulnerable, like she had been in the cabin that day, with Brody, while he was watching them – and now she was this way with him, and it was worth it, worth everything.

See? Adulterous relationships are awesome.

At first.

**

Dear Reader, 

Remember how love is the worst, awful, should be banned by the Geneva Convention? Have you not had these days when you were so deeply unhappy, that love was gnawing at your stomach like those foxes the Spartans had? (Yes, we are on a mythological streak today.) Well, it began to feel like that, to Quinn at least, when they entered the second year of their relationship. 

It wasn’t the foxes right at first, of course. It was more gradual. First it was just a pinch (of cinnamon in his coffee). Then maybe one of those pangs. Then…

Then it got worse.

Because Carrie was never there. She was busy, all the time. And those moments they had – yes, fervent and passionate and whatever, but then she left. She went back to ~~Ott~~ … that guy, or she went somewhere else, but then she took a plane, back to him. 

Fact Number Three: in adulterous relationships, time is your enemy. Quinn and Carrie had talked about this, he had negotiated for more (time), she had said yes, and… it didn’t happen. Not her fault. One day she showed him her schedule, and obviously ~~Ott~~ … that guy was a part of it. Carrie explained that if she wanted to keep her marriage real she had to spend a minimum of time with him, and then there were all those trips and all the board meetings and, as I said, they went over her schedule together, and sure – no time.

One day, Quinn stayed in bed, thinking, after she had left – earlier than she had said she would. 

Carrie was fine with the situation. He was the problem.

He was not cut for this, it was not what he wanted. I mean… Was this his future? In five, ten years, was he still going to get a few lost hours between two planes? Just the idea, and he couldn’t breathe, like he was locked in a cell, or back in the abandoned church – like he was on the other side of the barrier, and that other people had their share of existence, while he was condemned to the shadows.

Of course he knew those were crazy thoughts. The shadows were long gone. He had been in the sun for years, his life was real, and full. The amount of work he was doing was staggering, and he was very invested in it, he had friends and colleagues, and interesting relationships with interesting people. But… still, the feeling lingered. Once he had a one night stand – he was free after all, he and Carrie had discussed it, and obviously… considering the situation, he could do what he wanted. So yeah, he slept with someone, (not with Astrid, with Astrid it would have been cheating – on both women), but he felt hollow after, and vaguely disgusted. 

Months passed, and nothing got better, and Quinn began to weigh his options. But really, what could he do? Break up with Carrie, because he was not seeing her enough? Then he wouldn’t see her at all. How was that logical?

So he shut up, didn’t want to seem needy, but yeah. 

Foxes. Stomach. Gnawing.

The truth was, Quinn realized, not without a certain irony – he was just… monogamous. One of those guys, not sexy, not mysterious, not interesting, who fell in love with a woman and then didn’t budge. Maybe he would just have been satisfied with a pretty boring, happy life if fate hadn’t dealt him other cards. Maybe, if he had grown up in a normal family in a normal town, he would have been, yes, one of those guys, who fell in love with their high school sweetheart and married her and died first at 80 without even having looked at another female. 

There are guys like that, they exist (dear reader, I’ve met some) and apart from the fact that Quinn could never have told this to Carrie because, again, too intense, and totally unsexy, there was nothing wrong with being the “monogamous/fell in love with one woman and that was it” type of man, except, of course, when the woman in question was not available/not into you/not monogamous.

In this case, well – I would refer you to the first sentence of the first chapter of this story. (Love sucks.)

And by the way, dear reader, Jane Austen was wrong, in Persuasion. It’s generally not women, who keep loving, when “existence or hope is gone”. It’s men. Women move on. Rather quickly.

Anyway…

Carrie was fine with the way it was going, Quinn thought. And he could pretend, for her sake.

**

Dear Reader,

Carrie was not fine. She perceived what was going on. She didn’t talk to Quinn about it, of course, because that would have been communicating, and God forbids (Quinn was not much better at this game), and also the truth was, she was so afraid that if they had “the talk”, he would just break up with her. 

And she was afraid that it was true. That Dar Adal had been right. That she was bad for him after all.

So, instead of communicating, she went through four phases. First phase: panic. Second phase: guilt. Third phase: denial. Fourth phase: panic and guilt and denial, at the same time.

And repeat.

**

It all came to a sort of climax in a beautiful reception room with statues and paintings and gorgeous flowers arrangements and velvet seats. Carrie was now half working for the Foundation, half working for the UN (I’m simplifying, it was much murkier than this because a lot of projects were co-founded by both), (and don’t forget the European Union) (and sometimes individual countries) anyway there was a ceremony with “peace” prizes given by a pretty prestigious international organization, and the During Foundation was going to receive one of these during a pretty prestigious ceremony, and it was a huge deal, and Carrie was so proud and happy that Quinn actually accepted to go as a guest – among at least five hundred other people, so that was discreet enough. In fact, considering his work with the NGOs, he would have been invited anyway. 

Quinn had a good time at dinner. ~~Ott~~ … that guy and Carrie were nowhere in sight, they were sitting at a VIP table somewhere in the front. Quinn was at table number 53 B, on his left was a pleasant guy he had already met once, who worked into security and with whom he had an interesting discussion about “the future of frontiers” (yes, seriously) and on his left was a nice nerdy young Italian woman, with blond short hair with glasses, pretty, shy at first, but she had a doctorate in something connected to AI and her eyes just lit up when she spoke about “the future of human/computer interactions” (yes, seriously). 

Two very different people, two very different conversations, but Quinn enjoyed himself thoroughly (and the champagne was delicious). The guy had to leave early, so Quinn was left with the sweet blond woman during dessert, and when he offered her some more champagne, and some vanilla cookies, she refused politely, saying:

\- No. Not yet anyway. Not before a few months, at least.

\- This champagne is pretty good, you know.

\- I can’t, she explained with a nice smile. I’m pregnant. 

\- Congratulations. So are you from Milan? Quinn asked. I think I recognize the accent.

\- Oh no, the woman said, blushing a little. I’m not Italian at all. I’m from Bulgaria.

\- Really? Quinn said, in his most neutral tone. I don’t… recall your name, sorry.

\- Luba Kanev.

\- Pleased to meet you, he said politely, his mind reeling, the waiter was arriving with the coffee so it earned him a little time, but then the conversation was over anyway because some guy with a microphone introduced “the stars of the evening, Otto During and his beautiful wife”, and Carrie and Otto went to get their stupid trophy, and Quinn realized he was staring, because Carrie was… yes, so beautiful, and yes, so far away, and then he glanced at Luba and she was staring at them too, and God, the pain on her face, in her eyes. 

And then he realized - his expression must have mirrored hers. 

God.

He stood up, said politely good-bye to Luba and to everybody, he exited the room discreetly and walked to the corridor through which he knew Carrie would have to go through when the ceremony was over. 

Then he waited. 

Carrie understood right away, when she found him there, a few minutes after. It was written all over his face.

\- Don’t do this, Quinn, she whispered. Please. Just don’t.

\- Listen to me Carrie, he said, slowly. You can divorce him now. (She opened her mouth but he raised his hand to stop her.) You are not tied by the Foundation any more, not entirely. You are partly employed by the UN already, and you can land a job there, or anywhere really now, with the trophy and your connections and… Divorce him, and come live with me. Let’s move to New York. It will be better for your career anyway. More opportunities.

Carrie shook her head.

\- I can’t do that.

\- Yes you can. Now, you can.

\- No I…

\- Do you know Luba’s pregnant?

Carrie had a movement of surprise, but rationalized it instantly.

\- It’s… not my business.

Quinn shook his head, anger rising – and let me tell you, dear reader, that I have absolutely nothing against open marriages or polyamory relationships, a part of me even thinks they might be the future of our society (a discussion for another time) but let’s just state one very obvious thing: everybody has to be willing. 

And here, there were four people concerned by the matter, and two of them were very much unwilling. (A 50% disapproval rate! That’s never good.)

\- I’m stopping this, Carrie, Quinn said. Right now. I’m leaving. You can come with me. But you have to choose. Him or me.

\- So you are changing your mind – again? she said, bitterly. And ditching me.

\- You are stalling. Just answer.

\- What are you going to do, Quinn? Change your mind every two years?

He felt sick – because she was going to say no, that much was clear – and then he felt sicker, because it meant that he was going to lose her, but also…

He tried to speak. His voice broke. Then he finally said:

\- You have no excuse now, but you are still staying with him. And you can’t hide behind the job, because you can get an equivalent offer somewhere else. But still, you won’t leave him.

\- You are the one breaking up, Quinn, don’t try to…

\- You won’t even tell me you’re considering it? And if you won’t, he continued, trying to keep a neutral tone, it means it’s not about the Foundation, it’s about you. It mean you just fucking don’t want this. You and me… for real… You don’t want it.

\- Don’t bullshit me, Quinn, she seethed. You’re the one who…

He yelled.

\- Just fucking admit it, Carrie! 

And suddenly, Otto was behind them, materializing from God knows where, and Carrie jumped out of her skin, and that fucker put a reassuring hand on Carrie’s shoulder, saying:

\- Hi. Good to meet you. Is everything all right in here?

And yes of course, Quinn just wanted to punch him (to kill him, really), to yell at him that he didn’t have the right to touch her, to knock him out, here and there, with a single blow, except – except, the guy was her fucking husband. And he was right to put his fucking hand on her fucking shoulder. And he was right to want to protect her. 

And also…

(There was a tense silence, and the two men just stared at each other, and Otto seemed perfectly conscious of what was happening, and of who Quinn was, and maybe, Quinn thought, Otto had a private detective check him out, or maybe Carrie had talked about him, or – really, maybe Otto just guessed, it was not like the situation was that difficult to comprehend, but anyway….)

You know what? It was not Otto’s fault. It was Carrie’s problem, Carrie’s decision, all of it. In fact… Quinn turned to Otto.

\- You think you have her, he said. But you don’t, and I don’t either.

\- Quinn…, Carrie pleaded.

\- She’s playing us both, because she can’t commit. She still can’t give herself to anybody entirely – because she’s so fucking scared. She can’t be all in, not with you, not with me. So this fucked up situation… it is perfect for her, really.

Nobody answered – Carrie was fighting tears, Otto was just studying him silently. Quinn was so sick, so heartbroken.

\- Last chance, Carrie, yes or no? he asked.

\- No, she succeeded to utter.

\- Fine.

A few people were watching, and among them Luba – she stood a few feet away, very pale, listening to it all, (she must have come to congratulate Otto) and it was clear that she understood what had just happened, she must have heard of Quinn, like he had heard of her, and Quinn just smiled at her, a sad little smile, a show of camaraderie, and then he was gone.

\- So that is the guy, said Otto, after a short pause.

Carrie had trouble talking. Then she breathed:

\- It was.

 

(The End!)

 

 

(Nah, just kidding).

 

**

Dear Reader, 

She lasted ten months.

First, she was furious. And so sad. He had left her – she cried for days, when Otto was not there.

All these promises… implied promises, Quinn had not promised anything aloud really but it had been implied, right? All these love declarations… ok, only one, but a really good one, and so that didn’t mean anything either? And yeah, what about that letter? (A letter they had never talked about, by the way.) Lies, lies, lies, just a fucking lying liar, that’s what Quinn was – all of it, lies, and what about what he had written at the end of this letter? “Yours for always”? Ha! Please! “Yours till I fucking change my mind, for no good reason at all”, was more like it. 

Loyalty? Fidelity? Constancy? Please! Men. Fuckers, the whole lot of them. Who took your heart and hands in hospital waiting rooms and looked at you like you were the universe but secretly didn’t care about it at all, and who certainly celebrated their freedom right now by dancing naked on a stage somewhere with hordes of bikini clothed whores covered in grapefruit jelly. 

Well, who cared. Not her. She never really loved him anyway. 

And she was free, now, right? I mean, open marriage – when you thought about it, she never really took advantage of it – yes, with Quinn, but it was not casual, it was not for fun, it was… She didn’t want to think about Quinn. So she decided to have a one night stand, no, she decided to have a million one night stand(s)… and then, I’ll send him the pictures, she decided. Poor Carrie. She couldn’t have even one. She ended sobbing in the guy’s bathroom, and he was nice about it and called her a cab.

**

After a while, she took things more seriously. 

So, ok. Quinn had said she couldn’t commit, and that this open marriage/dual relationship was just a way to avoid being all in. 

Fine, she was going all in, then. Because maybe there was a hint of truth to what he said. So yes, she decided to commit. Fully. To Otto.

Cause who else?

**

Dear Reader,

The end is near, and I’m not going to make you suffer more. Because this is getting long, and anyway, I am now facing a conundrum, which I guess every fic writer faces sometimes, which is: how do you describe someone who just changes her mind? How do you describe – a mental, emotional, intellectual realization? There’s no action, there’s no gunfight, there’s no stopping in the middle of the street where the light of truth shines suddenly on you from the above like a pillar of fire. It’s more like a gradual realization, and that’s very boring to describe.

Because – it didn’t work out between Carrie and Otto – oh yes, I know, what a surprise, right? Aw, you were all hoping it would? How sweet. Nothing went wrong, though, and I guess that’s the answer of my conundrum, and that’s what I’m going to talk about, because really, that’s the salient point. 

Nothing went wrong between Otto and Carrie during these ten months when she decided to totally commit, emotionally and sexually (no graphic details will be given). It went great! Otto was funny and clever, a generous and educated man, they went to a sort of second honeymoon in Asia for two weeks and it was an amazing trip, they worked together so well, and back in Berlin they went to delicious restaurants and drank priceless wines while talking about saving the world, and you know, sure, one could get used to that kind of life. 

Except – Carrie didn’t. Everything was great – but nothing really was. And then one day she just came the horrid realization that Quinn was wrong (yes, wrong), she was ready to commit. She was just committing to the wrong man.

Her marriage was a sham, the worse kind: the one which is not that bad, really. The kind where you’re having a good enough time when your husband is there, but you’re relieved when he leaves. The kind where you secretly think that if he ever left you first, that would not be so bad – in fact it would be a relief. The kind where you fantasize about another life, all the time, and the one you’re living right now doesn’t seem totally real. 

So – why did Carrie say “no”, the day of the trophies? A bunch of reasons – she was terrified (so yes, Quinn was right about that), she was taken by surprise, Quinn was a jerk about it (in Carrie’s opinion), she didn’t want to hurt Otto, she had no real motivation to change a situation which was working so well for her – and maybe she was not ready at the time, but now she was – and also: a divorce, in the situation she was in, was going to be a personal and professional tsunami, an absolute nightmare, and she was scared just thinking about the implications – in fact, when she first began to consider it seriously, she just decided it was impossible, she just couldn’t do it, period, but then the idea of divorce came back and back and wouldn’t leave and just gnawed at her stomach (Like the Spartan foxes!) and dear reader, I don’t want to stir up bad memories, but if you ever agonized for months or years before getting a divorce I’m sure you know what we’re talking about here, and why was Carrie considering all this already?

Damn, she thought, one day, alone in her bed (Otto was travelling somewhere). Love was a fucking curse.

So after ten months had passed, one morning Carrie told Otto, and asked for a divorce. Man, that did NOT go well. The discussion was most unpleasant, ladies and gentlemen. Carrie ended up leaving the apartment with just her purse, she almost ran out of it really and she walked for hours, blindly, in the city streets, trembling with rage and pain and self-contempt (Otto had said some not nice things, and a lot of them were true). 

She didn’t cry, it was deeper than that, she was shivering, she felt nauseous, she had just destroyed without possible salvation one of the safer, most reassuring relationship of her life, the most solid safety net she ever had, and she had forgotten why – but then – ok – she had not forgotten why – in fact, she knew perfectly why.

And then Carrie’s thoughts began to take another direction. 

It took hours, though, to get completely out of that Otto generated self-hate bubble. But after a while the image of her soon to be ex-husband was at last replaced by the image of someone else, and Carrie stopped at a bar, and tried to calm down. 

She got a non-alcoholic drink. Her hands were trembling. She didn’t get the phone out of her purse. Her heart was beating so fast it was almost painful, but she agonized for an hour again, not about sending a message to Quinn, of course, but about what to write in the message. 

It had been ten months, maybe he was married to one of the girls with the bikinis and the grapefruit jelly now. 

The sun was setting when she finally took her phone.

**

And here we are ending our story, dear reader. 

Eleven weeks later, in New York, in a hotel, I don’t care which one, but it has to be high – literally, our heroes have to be on the 33th floor or something, because of the metaphor we have chosen for this tale – Orpheus and Eurydice. They started their journey underground (sublevel two), they have to finish above ground, with a lot of space and light, for the story to work. 

It’s night though, because it’s more romantic. And there are lights enough, at night, in New York.

Carrie entered the bedroom, coming right from the airport, in a foul mood and exhausted, while he was getting out of the shower. They had to stay in this hotel for maybe a week, because the house in Brooklyn Quinn had just purchased would not be theirs before a few more days. Carrie looked around, and then decided that going all the way across the bedroom to go sit on the bed would be too complicated, so she just made a show of collapsing on the floor and lied there, with her coat still on and everything. Looking at the stars (well, looking at the ceiling, but work with me here, people) and, yeah, again, in a foul mood, but with also a strange euphoria.

It was so weird, she thought. On one hand, the following months were going to be horrid, because of Otto. Otto, who, in a perfect world, would have come to his senses and been a gentleman about Carrie’s decision (“Sure, honey, I set you free, go forth and divorce, you have my blessing”). Curiously, it didn’t go like that, at all.

It had been weeks of tense negotiations, and Otto was still furious. He was hurt, he was angry, he was betrayed (I almost wrote “he felt betrayed”, but no, honestly, he was), and he sued Carrie for… everything he could, arguing about everything, trying to complicate every aspect of her professional future just for revenge, kicking her out of every Foundation projects, even if she was in the middle of them, badmouthing her to everybody. Now, before you all jump up and down crying: “I knew it! Otto is an evil monster!” wait a minute and inverse the genders here. Imagine it was an older woman who had made a deal with a younger man and married him and taught him everything she knew and launched his career and gave him her trust and that two years in – after securing enough of a professional network to launch his own career – the guy just dumped her for a younger model, we would all be applauding her revenge. Also, Carrie has to suffer a little right now. Or this story would not feel earned.

So yes, the next months were going to be awful – but on the other hand…

On the other hand, new life. New house. New job. 

New beginnings. 

Quinn sat down on the floor near her, and they just stayed there for a while, not talking, just appreciating… time. Silence. And their mutual presence. 

And the unfolding of a hundred possible futures.

\- So, was leaving me the next step on your stairwell? Carrie finally asked, and it took Quinn a good minute to connect the dots.

\- I guess so.

\- And me coming back was another step again?

\- No, that was your stairwell. 

\- Shit. Too many metaphors, Carrie whispered, then she laughed – because she was so tired, and so happy, and maybe the Orpheus and Eurydice story was a mutual thing after all.

Quinn lied down near her, and smiled.

\- Me, I just got you out of the claws of the beast.

\- Oh my God, said Carrie. Stop with the mythology – and Otto is not a beast.

\- Fine. I freed you from the evil influence of the dark sorcerer.

\- He’s not a dark sorcerer.

\- You didn’t meet Luba. My opinion of Otto is even lower now, and it was pretty low to begin with.

\- Luba volunteered for this, Carrie said, a little uneasy. Nobody forced her.

\- He got her pregnant, then he invited her to a ceremony to watch him AND HIS WIFE receive a trophy. 

\- Weeeell, Carrie muttered, even more uneasy, I did the same thing to you. Except for the pregnancy thing, obviously.

\- Yeah, and we broke up.

\- Otto didn’t “get Luba pregnant”, she is a grown up and has her own agency. You know what, Quinn? You are just an awful patriarchal monster who thinks women should be protected.

\- Yes. Is that wrong?

\- Yes. But it’s also totally working for me, so never change. Also, it’s sexy.

\- I hope so.

They were holding hands now – just lying side by side – just being happy.

\- There is complimentary champagne and vanilla cookies on the table, he said. Do you want some?

\- We deserve it. But later… because I don’t want you to move, ever…

\- Fine, but then – 

It was a strange kiss – lying here on the carpet, him in a tee-shirt and boxers, her with all her clothes on, even her coat, a kiss with no urgency – but so tender – so long – she never wanted it to end, ever.

But it ended, and their eyes met, and Quinn whispered:

\- I just want you to keep looking at me like this.

\- Like what?

Dear reader, he couldn’t well say “like you looked at Brody in the cabin”, so he tried to analyze it – then, you know, forget the analysis, so he just repeated “like this” and kissed her again, and then breathed: “like you love me”, and then kissed her again, for the kiss of course, but also to hide his embarrassment (you know, for saying something like this). Carrie didn’t answer, not with words, and you can imagine the rest – under the night sky – ok, ok, not under the night sky, under the ceiling, and then another ceiling and then another and then the roof with the air conditioner, gee, you people are merciless! Would it kill you to add a little magical realism in here? Anyway this story is not true – or it’s true in a parallel universe where stories about stories are true – yes, I’m going with that. I always thought all the stories were real, somewhere, anyway.

And when we come back to our heroes, they’re in the aftermath and there is a strange, strange emotion coming from the both of them, like this moment, right now, is so special – she feels almost dizzy, and he’s almost choked up, and maybe it’s because Carrie’s back for good now, after all these trips to Berlin to try (unsuccessfully) to settle things, and it feels like crossing a threshold, or maybe because she’s thinking about all Quinn’s gone through and that’s it’s a miracle, really, that they’re both alive, and here together – and it’s also a miracle that he loves her still (always), that there was no marriage with a bikini clad girl covered in grapefruit jelly and that eleven weeks ago, in Berlin, she just had to text him and tell him what she had done, for him to come to her, instantly. 

\- I hate that it’s so complicated to you to navigate that divorce, he suddenly said, and his voice was a little hoarse (I told you he was choked up). But also, in an awful, selfish way, I kind of like it. Because… You’re doing this for me. 

Because you chose me, is what he really meant, but nope – not saying that aloud. 

\- Well, I’m happy you’re happy, but believe me – the sooner this clusterfuck is over, the better.

\- Do you regret it? Your decision? Considering the hassle?

\- No. (Then she asked:) Do you regret… the waiting?

\- I do. Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if everything had gone a bit faster. I mean, it’s been – I don’t know, a billion years? Since I’ve been assigned to the Brody task force?

\- What? (She frowned.) Since Brody? I mean… You liked me then… already?

\- Well, yeah. Didn’t I tell you?

\- No, I don’t think so. So, all this time? (Carrie couldn’t resist a victorious smile.) That’s – I don’t know. It’s... kind of romantic.

He rose on his elbows to kiss her. 

\- No, he said, after he lied down again. 

And then he thought back, about everything he felt, all the jealousy and loneliness and anger and all the lost tenderness and devotion and all the years and the pain and he added: 

\- Believe me – it sucked.

 

(The End.)


	14. The One with Brody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 2/Season 3. No CIA bombing, but instead... You'll see.

\- So, why are you fucking the jerk? Quinn asked.

\- Who?

\- Brody.

Carrie scoffed, even drank a little water to give herself a countenance – the waiter arrived at the same moment, he almost threw the burgers on the table – nope, this was not the Astoria.

\- Wh- I… You're not supposed to ask this kind of questions, Quinn.

\- I’m asking.

Carrie gulped a little more water – no wine, they were going back to work on the Armano’s files after dinner, Quinn had said – and he was her boss, after all.

\- You can ask. I can refuse to answer.

Quinn smiled.

\- You’re flustered. Why are you flustered? You could just say “I fuck the guy because I like him”. Or “I fuck the guy because I want to keep an eye on him, because I think he is connected to this Armano thing.” You don’t have to demure.

\- Brody is not connected to the Armano thing.

\- Oh come on Carrie, even you don’t believe that.

But she did believe it – Abu-Nazir was dead, his group had been more or less dismantled (except that, yes, maybe Armano was connected to the asshole.) Brody and his wife had separated, he was still a Congressman, because Estes and Saul had decided that he was more useful to them that way - to see if survivors of the Nazir’s network would contact him. But Brody was clean now, he had gone through his redemption phase, Carrie thought – and he had killed Walden to save her, but of course – that she couldn’t tell Quinn.

And Brody said he had no idea about the Armano thing. She trusted him. She did. She trusted Brody now. Right?

It was dark outside – already 9 pm. They were sitting near the window, reinforced glass, obviously, considering the circumstances – every restaurant, every shop in town had them now.

\- I do believe him. I do believe Brody hadn't even heard about Armano, Carrie finally answered – she had regained her calm. I trust him.

Quinn sighed.

\- For shit’s sake.

He looked thoughtful, almost serious for a moment – his smirk had disappeared. Then he added:

\- You answer is worrisome, Carrie. And I’m going to tell you why. But first, a drink?

\- Alcohol? I mean, sure – great - but aren’t we going back to work after?

\- No we ain’t.

She smiled.

\- What’s my boss gonna say?

\- “Whisky?”

\- Sure. It’s gonna suck in this joint, though.

\- Don’t really care.

Quinn stood up and walked to the counter to order, Carrie was still working on her burger and fries – greasy, but not too bad – when a zombie just crashed upon the window outside, less than one feet from her – leaving a little slime on the glass, punching the window with its decaying hand – Carrie yawned, thinking about redoing her lipstick – but then she changed her mind – I mean, lipstick, for Quinn? Anyway, lipstick and fries, not a good combination – the zombie was still banging, but the glass was mostly soundproof, a teenage girl appeared behind the creature with her official Zknife© in hand, said something to draw the thing’s attention and then dispatched him with a quick blow between the eyes, her friends applauded and cheered, they had beers in their hands, but at least they were observing the official recommendation to travel in groups. The zombie fell and disappeared from Carrie’s view, the teenagers went on their merry way, and Quinn was back with two (very full) glasses.

\- Ok, he said, after they both had taken a sip. Listen to me. Sleep with the guy if you want – although I think you shouldn’t – but don’t fucking trust him, Carrie. I mean, are you crazy? Keeping secrets, having a double life – that’s what fuels Brody. The guy has nothing else. He is his secrets.

\- No I… (Carrie shook her head and thought for a while. Then she took another sip.) Ok. Maybe.

\- Thank you.

\- I do not mean: “Maybe he is connected to the Armano thing”. I mean maybe, yes, the thing with the secrets, and the layers. There is truth in that.

\- Glad all the sex didn’t shut down your brain, Carrie.

\- My brain never shuts down.

\- Yeah, I've seen. (Quinn sighed again, sipped his drink in silence.) I don’t like it, he continued, at last, and there was a strange sincerity in his voice. I don’t like that you’re involved with him.

Carrie felt a little uneasy – she fidgeted in her chair a little – for no reason at all.

\- Why?

\- Why? Really? You’re asking why? The guy is a terrorist. He’s been brainwashed, and then one could say, brainwashed the other way again. He’s a liar and a murderer. He may or may not be connected to this Zombie outbreak, thanks to Nazir and Armano. He got you institutionalized, you got electric shocks – I mean, Carrie, think about it! That’s the man who lied so much to everybody that you got EST just for telling the truth - and now he’s putting his dick in you, with a rose and a fucking smile!

Carrie shivered – then she felt a little nauseous – that had punched her in the gut, harder than she thought it would – of course she knew these things, no news to her, but – fuck Quinn and his stupid bluntness, always blurting things with no nuance or subtlety or…

She shivered again.

\- Fuck you, she muttered, when she had succeeded to find back her voice – not looking at him. (Her eyes were even a little shiny.) And what the fuck is it to you, anyway?

\- Your behavior is self-destructive.

\- Oh yeah? Well, fuck you again.

\- This relationship is unhealthy and… I don’t know, just… fucking screwed up.

\- Yeah, well, FUCK you, Quinn. (And elderly couple stared at the table near them, but neither Carrie nor Quinn really gave a damn.) Why do you care? We’re not friends! I don’t even… We’ve known each other, for, what, six months?

\- First, it is in everybody’s best interest that the members of my team don’t, you know, self-destruct.

\- Stop saying this. Shit. I’m not self-destructing. I am…

\- Second, if you were single, then you and I could fuck.

Carrie scoffed – again – then stared at him, aghast. Quinn smirked, clearly amused by her reaction.

\- Are you serious? she asked.

\- Oh yeah.

Carrie took her whisky, finished it in one draw.

\- You are serious.

\- Yes.

\- You want to fuck me.

\- I’d rather the feeling was mutual. It’s generally more pleasant that way.

\- Well, I’m… I’m…

\- Yes?

\- With Brody.

\- Oh I’m a much better choice than Brody.

\- I don’t think you really are. First, you are my boss.

\- Yes. Again: boss… or "traitor and terrorist". Which is worse?

\- And you are… (Carrie stared at him, right in the eyes.) I know stuff. About you.

\- Ah, stuff. Stuff is always interesting. What stuff?

\- Black Ops? she whispered. (Then Carrie stared at something through the window, and just said:) Quinn.

Quinn followed her gaze – three zombies were out there, stumbling forward in direction of the church, and there was a woman walking towards them (alone). She had just stopped, noticing them, she was taking her Zknife© out of her handbag, but her hands were slightly trembling.

\- For God’s sake, Quinn muttered, he stood up, took his gun, put a hand on Carrie’s shoulder, squeezing it for the briefest second, and then he walked outside – everyone in the restaurant was watching, Quinn walked to the zombies, raised his arm and calmly dispatched them, one bullet in each head, just between the eyes, three perfect shots.

\- Your husband is good, said a lady, from the elderly couple that had given them the stink eye with all the “Fucks” earlier.

\- He’s not my husband, Carrie answered, her shoulder burning. But yeah, he’s good.

Quinn was scolding the woman outside. She deserved it; I mean, if you’re alone, take your car, for fuck’s sake. Then he walked back – all eyes on him – the waiter thanked him: “for all of us”. "The meal is on us, sir", he even added.

\- Show off, Carrie said, smiling, when Quinn sat down again.

\- I try. Where were we?

She leaned toward him with a provocative look.

\- You being a government sponsored professional murderer?

\- Yeah, he said, in the same tone. (Then he leaned toward her.) Still a better choice than Brody.

Carrie was slightly taken aback. By… the situation? By the brutal, uncompromising truth of it all? It was not her first charged conversation with a man, far from it, but she had never been – wooed – this way. With this raw, unapologetic brusqueness, and also – she still felt the phantom of his hand – Quinn was obnoxious, most of the time – but…

He was watching her, staring really, analysing her.

\- So? What do you think? Dumping the jerk?

\- Well I… I…

Obviously, she couldn’t. I mean… she couldn’t. Right?

\- No, Quinn, she said – reddening a little – he was right, she was flustered. I… I can’t, I mean… I don’t want to. Brody and I, we’ve been through so much together… Sorry. No.

Quinn leaned back on his chair.

\- It’s fine.

\- It is?

\- Sure. I know what you're going through. I’ve been in love with the “wrong one” before. It’s a phase. It will pass.

\- It will?

\- Yes. In fact, now that I’m in the picture - it’s over with you and Brody. I give it three weeks.

\- Oh, of course. Because, I mean, now that I know you are interested, Quinn – how can I resist, right?

\- Exactly. You said it yourself, Carrie – you brain can’t stop working. So you’ll draw comparisons…

\- Sure. That’s what I’m going to do all day – think about you. Instead of working on Armano and the Zombie outbreak…

\- Absolutely. You will be obsessed by me, 24/7. You will see Brody’s face, and think: “Hey, Quinn’s more handsome”. You will have sex with him, and you’ll wonder: “Maybe Quinn’s better.”

\- Oh God you’re such an ass, she said, laughing.

\- Brody will tell you something, and you’ll wonder if he’s lying. While I wouldn’t lie. And you will think: “Quinn respects my intelligence. That man… tried to destroy mine.”

Carrie glared at him – she wasn’t laughing anymore.

\- That’s fucking evil, what you just said, Quinn. And it won’t work.

\- Just the truth, Carrie. And it will.

There was a silence – they stared at each other, measuring each other up, like enemies.

\- Three weeks, he repeated. Think about it.

They stared again – then she softened a little – or maybe she was just tired – or maybe she was flattered – or maybe – who knew. She observed the street for a while, the night and the town and the unknown out there, then turned back to Quinn with a sad, sweet smile which pierced his heart, right there, in this stupid classless joint.

\- I’d better go home, she said, slowly.

\- I’ll walk you to your car.

He stood up, offered her her coat – he was not usually that gallant, but maybe he wanted to downplay the animosity of the last exchanges – he was very careful not to touch her - because of her sudden sadness, it would have felt like – taking advantage – he felt a little unsettled himself, to be honest – he could… protect her, if she only let him – when they walked to the door, he got out first ("chivalry in the time of zombies") and the cold air seemed to revive her, she smiled again, with true mirth this time.

\- You seem so sure of yourself. Three weeks is a very pretentious estimate.

\- I have my ways of knowing.

\- Superpowers?

\- Bitten by a precog radioactive spider.

She laughed, then thought of something and frowned.

\- Hey, wait a minute. Was that a date?

\- Yep. At least I had hoped it would turn out to be.

\- You planned it?

\- Of course.

\- God. You are so full of it, all the fucking time. And you actually believe we will end up together.

Quinn smiled back – his most cocky, pretentious, radiant smile.

\- No, Carrie. I _know_ we will.

 

 

(The End!)


	15. 3.03 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answer to the prompt: "Quinn or Carrie can't sleep after "The Kiss", in episode 4.12, and one of them calls the other."  
> Frangipani Flower answered the same prompt, and we chose the same title (on purpose). Go check her wonderful story!

A few hours after the kiss...

_3.03 AM._

_(The phone rings)_

 

Quinn: Hey, Carrie.

Carrie: Hello. 

Quinn: I, er... I... 

Carrie: Yes ? 

Quinn: I have no valid reason for calling. 

Carrie: (Laughs.) Well, I'm glad you did. 

Quinn: Good. Good.

Carrie:… 

Quinn: Carrie? You still there?

Carrie: Yes. Sorry. 

Quinn: Actually.. I do, er, I do have a reason. I wanted to be sure that you were taking my proposition, um, I mean, seriously. 

Carrie: Your proposition? 

Quinn: ...

Carrie: Quinn?

Quinn: Yes... 

Carrie: What proposition? 

Quinn: ....

Carrie: Quinn? 

Quinn: What we talked about, Carrie. Near the car. 

Carrie: Oh yes... Of course ! Of course I'm taking it seriously. I just, er sorry. I was distracted. By, er, something. Don't worry. I just... 

Quinn: Ok. 

Carrie: No, I mean... 

Quinn: Ok.

Carrie: Of course I'm taking it seriously. 

Quinn: OK. 

Carrie: OK. 

Quinn: ... 

Carrie: Anything else? Quinn? 

Quinn: No, Carrie, nothing else. Good night. 

Carrie: Er, Ok. Good night.

 

**

Carrie: Quinn, it's me. 

Quinn: (sigh) What do you want, Carrie ? 

Carrie: Listen, just now... That phone call... I had something on my mind. I... I'm sorry. And I'm... I don't want you to take it the wrong way. 

Quinn: The wrong way. How could I? I mean, that conversation was very reassuring. 

Carrie: No, I know. I... I'm sorry. Please forgive me. 

Quinn: There is nothing to forgive, Carrie. Actually, you know what ? You just gave me the answer I was waiting for, and it's totally fine, thank you, good bye. 

Carrie: Oh fuck you, Ok? I did not gave you any fucking answer. Can you just listen to me for a minute? 

Quinn: Why? 

Carrie; Because I need your help. I need to talk. About our conversation. Can you just listen ? 

Quinn: ... 

Carrie: Quinn ? 

Quinn: (sighs) Sure. 

Carrie: OK. We, er, kissed... 

Quinn: ...

Carrie: Quinn? 

Quinn: I'm aware. 

Carrie: OK. And then you told me all that stuff, important, er, stuff, and then you know, I went back home, well, Maggie's home, and, er... I couldn't stop thinking about my mother. 

Quinn: Aw. That's just what's a man likes to hear. 

Carrie: ... Well, I... 

Quinn: I mean it, really Carrie. Cause, you know? That's what you want. After you made a l... After such a statement, you just want the thoughts of a woman to go straight to her mom. No, I mean, seriously, you do. 

Carrie: OK, Quinn, I get it, we all get it, irony, wonderful tool. Can I go on now? 

Quinn: Sure. I mean, after such an auspicious beginning.

Carrie: …

Quinn: Go on, Carrie. Please talk about your mother again.

Carrie: No. Wait. So, you were serious.

Quinn: What?

Carrie: About your proposition. About… that… kiss. About everything.

Quinn: That’s a… strange question to ask, Carrie. Of course I was serious.

Carrie : It’s just… I guess, your reaction right now. To this phone call. Phone calls. I’m just realising… that you were… I don’t know, in earnest?

Quinn: Wow. This conversation is just getting better and better.

Carrie: So you want to be with me.

Quinn: ... Yes. Yeah. I mean, yes.

Carrie: But… You know me.

Quinn: Yes. That’s the whole idea. I thought we covered that.

Carrie: I just… I mean, you know me. You saw how I was in Islamabad. I’m not… nice.

Quinn: You have your moments. I’m not nice either.

Carrie: …

Quinn: Carrie?

Carrie: I don’t know. You can be.

Quinn: …

Carrie: …

Quinn: Ok. Listen, is this going to be a whole thing and we'll be nice to each other and we’ll talk for hours and it’s going to end with you saying: “I think it's better if we stay friends?” Because then I’d rather skip the discussion, and go right to the finish line.

Carrie: No. No. No… No no. No. I’m not saying anything. I’m not saying “I think it's better if we stay friends”. At all. I’m just… I don’t know, just beginning to… as I said, realizing… it. What you said. Processing it.

Quinn: … O-kay...

Carrie: It’s a good thing you called.

Quinn: Sorry to use again this, you know, “irony” concept, but generally, after a kiss and er… a talk like that, most women understand what’s up. They don’t need a follow up phone call. To explain the situation.

Carrie: Well, I’m not most women, ok? I am… I can be… a little slow. With those things. I mean, also, you’ve got to admit, it was quite a surprise.

Quinn: Oh come on.

Carrie: What?

Quinn: It was a surprise? Really?

Carrie: Yes, it was, Quinn. Really. I mean, come on! You yell at me all the time!

Quinn (muttering): _You_ yell at me all the time.

Carrie: Well, see?

Quinn: See what?

Carrie: I had reasons to be surprised.

Quinn: Yeah. I don’t believe you.

Carrie: Ok, Quinn. I'll admit... I thought you might… I thought there might have been… I mean, sometimes, when you work with people, obviously there is… And the Aayan thing… But I didn’t think it would be… Like that.

Quinn: Like what?

Carrie: For real.

Quinn: …

Carrie: Sorry. Sorry. Is that… too strong a word? "For real?" Well, two words?

Quinn: No.

Carrie: Ok.

Quinn: No. Not too strong a word.

Carrie: …

Quinn: ...

Carrie: ...

Quinn: Carrie?

Carrie: Yes?

Quinn: What are you doing? Or thinking?

Carrie: I’m just… I don’t know, smiling.

Quinn: Good.

Carrie: Good?

Quinn: I like it when you smile.

Carrie: (whispers) Really?

Quinn: Yeah. I like it when you… talk, I like it when you… think.

Carrie: When I think?

Quinn: I... I like it when you… When you laugh. When you…

Carrie: When I…

Quinn: I... I don’t know. I like it when you breathe. Carrie, I…

Carrie: …

Quinn: I just...

Carrie: ...

Quinn: …

Carrie: Do, er, do you want to come over?

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: Er, wait! I forgot where I was. I mean… Can I come over?

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: Now?

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: Ok. I’ll… I’ll be right here. I'll be here.

Quinn: Ok.

 

**

Quinn: Hello? Carrie? Why are you... Do you need, er, the address?

Carrie: No. Quinn, I…

Quinn: What?

Carrie: ... 

Quinn: You’re not coming.

Carrie: No, I mean, yes, I mean no… Not yet… I just… Quinn, wait. Hear me for just a second.

Quinn: …

Carrie: Quinn, I… I understand now.

Carrie: …

Quinn?

Quinn: God, Carrie. Just... God.

Carrie: I just want to talk. To talk to you. For just… Just a minute, ok?

Quinn: …

Carrie: I understand, now, why I… suddenly thought about my mother – why I began so obsess about my mother, after we kissed, after... when you told me… 

Quinn: …

Carrie: It’s because I… You’re telling me you want me, right? That you want to stay with me, for... a while. For... a long time. But… Nobody wants that. I mean, nobody can do that. Not even my own mother could.

Quinn: …

Carrie: So, I mean, nobody can.

Quinn: Sure.

Carrie: Quinn?

Quinn: Ok. Whatever, Carrie. Good night.

Carrie: She came to visit a few days ago.

Quinn: What? Who? Your mom?

Carrie: Yes. What do you know about… Have you read my file?

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: So you know…

Quinn: …

Carrie: Quinn?

Quinn: I know she was not around.

Carrie: Yeah. My dad was sick, and then I was sick, I mean, my condition… She couldn’t stay. It was too much. It would be too much for anybody…

Quinn: …

Carrie: … It would be. ... Right?

Quinn: God. What do you want, Carrie? To be convinced?

Carrie: I don’t know… 

Quinn: …

Carrie: I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. Maybe I want to be convinced. Listen, I know it’s unfair to you, but…

Quinn: (laughs)

Carrie: Why are you laughing?

Quinn: Don’t worry about that, Carrie. The unfairness of that situation… is fucking abysmal, and I just… accepted it a long time ago, I swear. I just… It is what it is.

Carrie: But why do you… Quinn, I’m screwed up. Even you recognise that. And you are… well, I suppose one could see you as more or less handsome…

Quinn: Please, don’t go overboard with the compliments.

Carrie: And you are so very clever, and everybody likes you, and… Why on earth… do you want me? When you could have anybody, any woman… anybody else?

Quinn: Oh, I am totally screwed up.

Carrie: Really?

Quinn: Yes. And this… relationship we have? It’s totally fucked up. I’m totally fucked up.

Carrie: I can’t imagine… what’s in it for you. Me, I mean. What would you... gain?

Quinn: You really want to know?

Carrie: Yes.

Quinn: You sure?

Carrie: Yes.

Quinn: My theory is that we are so both fundamentally… screwed up. Such a fucking mess, God, Carrie, you are… But I think… I honestly think…

Carrie: Yes?

Quinn: It could be good, you know? It could be very good. Because you also are so bright, and so brave, and so… You’re... shining so bright, and… I…

Carrie: …

Quinn: I just… and I can see it, and… appreciate you for it, and I know you do… I don’t know, appreciate me for some of my qualities too… and… what could I do with a “normal” woman, you know, Carrie? How could she even begin to understand… 

Carrie: Yeah. 

Quinn: … and for the rest, all the mess, because we are both in it, because we both… we are in such a bad state, both of us... we could help each other. We could understand each other. We could... So, I guess, my point is – it’s because I’m fucked up that it could work, you know? Because we're both fucked up, and we could just... care for each other, and I don't know, get... better... be better...

Carrie: I…

Quinn: Yes?

Carrie: (laughs) ... You make a pretty convincing case.

Quinn: ...

Carrie: ...

Quinn: ...

Carrie: But...

Quinn: No. You know what? No "buts". No more "buts". I... I'm just sick of it. I'm done begging...

Carrie: You're not...

Quinn: Just fucking think about it, and take a fucking decision. And call me tomorrow. I'm... Right now, I'm just... done.

Carrie: ... Ok. 

Quinn: I said my piece and I'm done. You... You choose, Carrie, ok?

Carrie: Ok. 

Quinn: You just choose.

Carrie: Ok.

 

**

 

Carrie: Hey. Don’t be mad. Don’t hang up. Please.

Quinn: Carrie, I swear…

Carrie: I just needed to hear your voice.

Quinn: … Why?

Carrie: … I don’t know I… As I told you, I’m just… realizing all of this is.... true... really happening… and hearing your voice makes it real. Even if it’s your angry, exasperated, “I hate you Carrie” voice.

Quinn: I can’t hate you.

Carrie: …

Quinn: …

Carrie: I guess, you tried many times though, right?

Quinn: Yeah, kind of did.

Carrie: How long… have you… I mean, have you been thinking this for long? I mean, that you… that you might like me… This way...

Quinn: …

Carrie: You don’t have to answer. I’m just wondering.

Quinn: You know, I had prepared an answer. When I… I kind of thought I might talk to you… tonight… and I…thought you might ask this question, so I had a perfect lie all prepared.

Carrie: What’s the lie?

Quinn: The lie is: “It’s relatively recent, Carrie. I just thought we were working really well together in Islamabad, and the last days were pretty intense, so I guess it's… generated something in me, and I thought, let’s give it a try, you know?”

Carrie: Oh, well said.

Quinn: I thought so too.

Carrie: Very elegant. Although: “I thought we were working really well in Islamabad” is not really credible, cause, let’s admit it, it was awful. We spent our time shouting at each other. When you were not strangling me or telling me to fuck off.

Quinn: Yeah, well.

Carrie: So, what is the truth?

Quinn: Let’ just say that the “it’s relatively recent” part is a huge lie.

Carrie: …

Quinn: …

Carrie: Quinn, I...

Quinn: Yes?

Carrie: I’m in… in awe… of… you. I don’t know if it makes sense, but it’s… what I’m feeling, right now… That I… That I can’t deserve… someone as… as… I don’t know, as… like you are… That… it’s so huge, what you’re offering, and so beautiful, and I don’t… I don’t deserve anything, I don't deserve even a sliver of it… 

Quinn: Carrie…

Carrie: I just… 

Quinn: Carrie…

Carrie: …

Quinn: Carrie, just come over. Come here. Come over. Please. I… This conversation… It would be so much better if we were… close to each other, or you know… If you were… close to me or…

Carrie: …

Quinn: … in my arms, or…

Carrie: …

Quinn: …

Carrie: Ok.

Quinn: Ok? 

Carrie: Yes. I’m coming. 

Quinn: For real this time?

Carrie: Yes. Yes. I’ll be right over.

 

**

 

Carrie: Hello? What…

Quinn: I just want to make sure.

Carrie: It’s been twenty seconds!

Quinn: I know you. You can change your mind forty times in twenty seconds.

Carrie: Haven’t changed it yet.

Quinn: Ok.

Carrie: But you’re still on the phone.

Quinn: Just making sure.

Carrie: What, you’re going to stay on the phone the whole time, while I’m getting dressed?

Quinn: Yes.

Carrie: Ok. Suit yourself. Just… have to find shoes…

Quinn: …

…

…

Carrie: Hey.

Quinn: Oh, I don’t like this “hey”. It’s not a “I’m putting my shoes on” hey. It’s a, “Quinn, I want to talk” hey. I hate that hey.

Carrie: I… Two things.

Quinn: Carrie. Seriously. You’re killing me here.

Carrie: I have these two things fighting in my head, and they are… 

Quinn: I swear to God…

Carrie: The first thing is, I almost lost you there. In Islamabad. You were dead. You were going to kill Haqqani, and they would have killed you, before my eyes, and I…

Quinn: …

Carrie: I can’t even imagine…

Quinn: You saved me.

Carrie: Really? That’s how you see it? I mean, I know you hate me for it, but…

Quinn: I hated you. But you saved me.

Carrie: Thank you. Thank you for saying this. Thank you.

Quinn: What’s the second thing?

Carrie: I… wonder… if I should go to Missouri. I mean, tonight. 

Quinn: What? Now? Why? What’s in Missouri?

Carrie: My mom. I thought… I would go and confront her, you know? Ask her?

Quinn: Ask her what? You already know the truth. She was a screwed up mother, end of story. Plenty of bad parents to go around, believe me.

Carrie: I don’t know. I think I need her to tell me. To tell me face to face. That I’m unlovable.

Quinn: God, Carrie. Fuck.

Carrie: What? 

Quinn: Fuck. Are you dumb as shit or what?

Carrie: Er… well, that’s a noticeable change of tone…

Quinn: What’s this entire conversation been for, can you tell me? Do you even fucking hear me or what?

Carrie: I… I… It’s not…

Quinn: Do I even exist in your eyes? Do you even hear my voice?

Carrie: Quinn, what…

Quinn: You’re saying you’re unlovable to the man who just spent the last two fucking hours telling you…

Carrie: …

Quinn: …

Carrie: …

Quinn: …

Carrie: Wait.

Quinn: …

Carrie: I’m, er, back.

Quinn: …

Carrie: With, er, shoes.

Quinn: …

Carrie: …

Quinn: If you want to go to Missouri, I could go with you.

Carrie: …

Quinn: If you, er... really want to.

Carrie: …

Quinn: If you… I could punch her in the face… if you want to.

Carrie: …

Quinn: “Hey, bad mom! Here! Vlam! That’s for Carrie!”

Carrie: …

Quinn: "Vlam! That's for Maggie!"

Carrie: ...

Quinn: Isn’t it… how you solve that kind of problems?

Carrie: …

Quinn : If you…

Carrie : …

Quinn: Carrie…

Carrie: …

Quinn: Carrie, just say something. Just…

Carrie: Is it ok if I come over?

Quinn: What about Missouri?

Carrie: I don’t… care…

Quinn: …

Carrie: …

Quinn: Yes. Come over. You should come over. You should, I, just… Come over. 

Carrie: Putting my shoes on.

Quinn: Your shoes? I thought…

Carrie: I lied. I just… I was… Sorry. Left shoe now…

Quinn: Carrie, I swear, if you change your mind again, I…

Carrie: I won’t change my mind.

Quinn: I swear, if this phone rings again, I…

Carrie: It won’t.

Quinn: Cause I…

Carrie: …

Quinn: I...

Carrie: ...

Quinn: Well, you… you know.

Carrie: It won’t. The phone won’t ring again.

 

**

 

Carrie: Don’t hang up don’t do anything rash nothing happened I’m just stuck at the door!

Quinn: …

Carrie: I swear! I swear! I’m outside your fucking building, it’s raining and the thing you’ve given me doesn’t… Oh, hi. Yes. Yes. Peter Quinn. Oh, thank you so much! Thank you. A nice lady just let me in.

Quinn: I swear, I would have hunted you and killed you.

Carrie: You would have?

Quinn: Mercilessly

Carrie: Yes! No, I know where I’m going! Thank you again! 

Quinn: … 

Carrie: …

Quinn: It’s on the left.

Carrie: Yes.

Quinn: …

Carrie: Don’t… Stay with me, ok? Don’t… don’t hang up…

Quinn: …

Carrie: Quinn, I…

Quinn: …

Quinn : … Sorry, someone just…

Carrie: That’s me. I’m here.

Quinn: Really?

 

**

 

Carrie: I’m here.

 

(The End!)


	16. The One With The Fake Marriage (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware... Dancing with Season Six Spoilers in the second part. 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to Lange-C for editing this story!

Dear Reader, 

Everything began on a lovely morning in New York, while our gallant hero, Peter Quinn, was still in rehab and hating every second of it. As for our fair heroine, well, she was in a foul mood, and when she entered the physical therapy gym where Quinn was doing unpleasant exercises on parallel bars, she just said, with her characteristic feminine and demure attitude:

\- Fuck. Fuck, fuck, and fuck. I’m so sick of this shit, Quinn.

\- What? (Quinn asked, and there was a lot of tired exasperation in that single word.)

\- Do not “what” me in that tone. Do you know how much bullshit I have to go through just to get to see you for a few hours? Just to spend “quality time” with you in this… you know, this room fucking reeks, right? Because I’m not family, I’m not your sister, I’m not your mom, I’m not your girlfriend, I’m not your doctor… I am “just a friend”; so I have no right to be here, they say… I have to charm my way in, each fucking time, last time I even had to bribe that guy with the beard and bad breath…

\- Dave? You paid him? 

\- I told him I could get him front row opera tickets for “Lucia di Lammermoor” thanks to my shiny new government connections.

\- Dave likes opera?

\- People are strange. We should get married.

\- What?

\- We should get married, Quinn! Don’t look at me like that, it’s not for your abs, it’s not for your piercing blue eyes, it’s not for your slightly receding hairline (Quinn put his hand in his hair). It’s for getting easier access, okay? And each time I fill out those documents for you, they give me a hard time, and… Don’t worry, we’ll divorce the minute you get out of this shithole.

\- My hairline is receding?

\- Kind of. Not really. A little. 

\- Great.

Quinn slowly walked away from the parallel bars and grabbed his towel. 

\- Great, he repeated.

He dried his face, silently, and when he finally looked at Carrie she was struck with the strain on his face, the paleness, the tension.

\- Great, he repeated. Sure. Marrying a woman just to give her better administrative access… (He shook his head and added:) That’s... I mean, yeah. Just fucking GREAT. 

He threw the towel at a stool, but his muscles had a spasm and he missed it.

\- Fuck, he grumbled. Fuck. Fuck. (He kicked the stool.) FUCK!

… and his leg’s muscles didn’t spasm this time, and the stool jumped a good few feet, landing with a satisfying metallic clang. 

\- Hey, Carrie said, sincerely. Good aim. That’s great, Quinn. You should get angry more often.

\- Don’t vandalize government’s property! shouted one of the orderlies, who was helping another patient on the other side of the huge room. Our taxes paid for it! Well, not mine.

\- I’m angry all the time, Quinn muttered.

Carrie nodded.

\- I know.

They looked at each other for a few seconds, and Quinn was the first to lower his gaze.

\- Cause I don’t make enough money to pay taxes! the orderly shouted.

\- Yeah, we fucking get it! Quinn shouted back.

\- Unless you don’t want me to visit anymore, Carrie added, slowly.

There was a long silence, and Carrie began to grow nervous, but then Quinn shook his head, rage and bitterness visible on his face, and said:

\- Sure. Let’s get married.

And the rage and the bitterness were still there, dear reader, when they did get married in the tiny and bleak director’s office, two weeks later. Not in the chapel – Quinn was an atheist and Carrie didn’t want to mock her own faith with a fake ceremony - there were some legal arrangements to make but Carrie had powerful friends, and Saul too – yes, Saul helped, even with what happened between he and Carrie, guess that man was not all selfishness, after all – or maybe he had a hidden agenda and wanted to get on Carrie’s good side, anyway, who cares about Saul, right? Not me.

The ceremony was short, but the groom was looking so glum, that the guy (sent by the mayor’s office) actually stopped reading the official text for a second.

\- Hey, this is a real marriage, right? I mean, we only agreed to this considering… (He waved in Quinn’s direction.) … What he went through, and everything… But I’m not taking part in a…

\- This is a real marriage, Carrie said, and she put her arm around Quinn’s waist. We’re just both tired.

\- Is this – real, sir? the guy asked Quinn. I’d like to get an official confirmation from you.

\- Y-yes, Quinn said darkly, after an agonizing second. (Carrie’s heart had skipped a beat.) Yes, it’s a fucking excellent union between two great people. Look at me, I’m jumping with joy. If I could jump, obviously.

\- O-kay, said the guy, after a pause. In that case…

He finished the speech, they both said “yes”, then the guy added good naturedly: “You can now kiss the bride,” and Carrie didn’t wait for new and amplified awkwardness, she just stood on her tiptoes, grabbed Quinn’s shoulders and kissed him, on the lips, a short kiss, but – not a cold one, something brief but very tender, and her hands lingered on his neck for a fraction of a second and the guy must have seen something on Quinn’s face that satisfied him, because he smiled, congratulated the happy couple and then went away with the pleasant feeling of accomplished duty.

The happy couple walked back to Quinn’s room in perfect silence. 

Quinn laid down – he felt exhausted. Carrie went to get two “cups” of this awful tea from downstairs, the one with the artificial raspberry taste, and when she got back they talked a little about some administrative things she could now do for him, with her new wife status. Quinn was very calm, his answers were rational and composed, but he was not looking at her – he was staring at the window, on the other side. Then Carrie prepared to leave, taking her coat. Quinn got up to walk her to the door, unusually, but he felt – I mean, it was their wedding day. Was he just gonna just lie on the bed and ignore her? 

Carrie was looking for her bag when the night nurse entered.

\- Hey, Ms Mathison, she said, with a big smile. 

\- Hello, Alma. How are you today?

\- Just fine, but come on… I heard the news! Congratulations, you two, this is so wonderful.

\- Thank you, said Carrie.

\- Thank you, said Quinn.

And then – uncomfortable silence. It was Carrie’s turn to feel awkward now. She had thought this marriage was such a great idea, but considering Quinn’s attitude (hours of not even looking at her in the eyes) maybe it had been a complete fucking mistake.

Alma continued:

\- You are so lucky, Peter. Having someone at your side – someone like Carrie - visiting so often, helping you, and on all those administrative matters too… I mean, we have some patients here, you wouldn’t believe the loneli-

\- I know, Quinn said. Yes.

He had interrupted because – well, first because he didn’t want to be lectured on how lucky he was to have such a devoted wife, but also because, he was realizing – yes, he was, indeed, lucky to have such a devoted… friend. Wife. Whatever. I mean, he was indeed, so angry, dear reader, and he had been obnoxious to Carrie for the last few months, but – she was visiting all the time. And she was helping him with all those financial and administrative nightmares. And this marriage, this awful marriage, it was actually a pretty generous act on her part. And in return, he had been so…

\- Yes, I know, he repeated. (He looked at Carrie, I mean, really looked at her.) I am very lucky. Thank you, Carrie.

She looked at him with astonishment. God. Had he been so awful that even a normal “thank you” from him was coming as a total surprise? 

\- Um, of course, it’s fine, Carrie mumbled. I have to go.

She took her bag, another moment of awkwardness, Alma was looking at both of them with surprise, they were newlyweds, Quinn realized, this wouldn’t do, “Bye, honey”, he said – awkwardly (we are using that “awkward” word a lot, aren’t we, gentle reader?), then he leaned down for a kiss, Carrie froze – and something happened there. Not Quinn’s fault, or intention, please believe me, I have no reason to lie to you anyway - Quinn had no intention of making the kiss more… anything, really, he was just going for a polite one, but Alma was watching, and he wanted to make things look real to prove to Carrie that ok, he was taking the game seriously now, he was not an asshole anymore, he was grateful and not pouting like he had been the previous weeks, so he went for a real-er kiss, and – again, it’s difficult to describe, dear reader, but you know it, when something happens during a kiss, right? His lips on her – their warmth - her face - she shivered a little, her right hand hesitating, but then going for his neck, they were so close and suddenly it was over - they detached. 

\- Very chaste for the first day of your honeymoon, Alma joked.

Carrie said good-bye and just bam, disappeared. 

**

The following days crept by very slowly. Quinn was kind of going crazy. 

Waiting for Carrie to come back.

Days were always long, in this place, but now they seemed longer. What if she was offended, what if she thought he had been taking advantage of the situation, what if she was beginning to suspect… and then it was Sunday morning, and she entered his room joyfully, just walked to his bed, said “Good morning, honey” and kissed him directly on the lips, then winked and nodded toward the door – a male nurse was entering the room. He said hello to Carrie (everybody knew Carrie). When the nurse was gone, she sat on Quinn’s bed, near him (Did she do that before? She didn’t do that before.) They chatted, later she followed him in his all his “activities”, and it was… pleasant. As much as physical therapy, speech therapy, fine motion therapy can be pleasant, anyway. They joked. He smiled. He felt… better, he didn’t know why he felt that way, dear reader, also I guess it’s just harder to be harsh and unpleasant to someone you happily kissed hello in the morning. (Especially when you… feel… you know.) Anyway, in the afternoon, when Carrie left, she kissed him good-bye – jokingly – (“Bye honey”) there were no nurses around this time, it was, yes, a joke, he kissed her back, and she left.

**

Thus the honeymoon began.

A honeymoon with nothing more than a quick kiss in the morning, a quick kiss when she left, but each time Carrie visited, without exception. “Good morning, Honey. “ “Good bye, Honey.” Two kisses a day, it was their ritual now. And she was happy seeing him happier – so he was happier seeing her happy – virtuous circle. He still ranted, he still felt like a fucking cripple (even if everyone was fucking telling him “no serious long term consequences, after a thing like this, you are so lucky, Peter,”) oh, really, he was lucky? Did they want to trade places with him?

The gas chamber… he still saw it, he still felt it, he had nightmares of – but yes, in all this, he was not alone. He had her – one kiss in the morning, one kiss when she left, friendship, help, support and just her presence, just her smile, just her eyes, just, you know, _her_. She had changed, he thought, you could see it in her eyes but it was a good thing, that goodness and… love he could see in her now, (the years, and Frannie), yes, a very good thing… 

Sometimes Carrie said something nice, something mundane, like: “Don’t move, I’ll get more sugar for you,” and… he could not believe it, that she’d do that for him – that she’d do anything for him – sometimes she’d catch him staring, and she’d throw him an interrogative glance, but he’d just smiled, saying something like, “Sorry – thoughts wandering,”… And she’d smile back – serenely – with real, deep affection - so yes, a honeymoon.

Oh, by the way, his hairline was not receding AT ALL. He had checked. On the very same day Carrie had made that awful accusation – he had checked, thoroughly, in the mirror - lies, all of it, just lies. Thank God. He had even asked Alma, “You hair is fine,” she had answered, trying not to laugh – God. What a mean thing to say to a man. (And he washed his hair every day, so don’t even start.)

Ok, back to their honeymoon. 

It didn’t ache. It was not painful, having Carrie here and just being her friend – of course it could be frustrating, some nights he, well, you know, but again, there was no pain. 

These moments, this relationship, it was just calm, and sweet, and… nourishing, maybe, was that the word? Like there was this light, from her, from them, and he was just basking in it, basking in – love – there were all kind of loves, he thought, and this was – I don’t know, unhoped for, so it was enough, for now.

**

But, Dear Reader, you know what comes after the honeymoon?

The first marital fight.

Carrie was under a lot of pressure at work – she was a little short with Quinn, maybe, and he… It may have touched some insecurities, like: “Does she really want to be here?” “Is she bored in my company, is it an obligation, wouldn’t she rather be with Franny, or at work?”

Anyway, suddenly they were screaming at each other in his stupid claustrophobic yellowish bedroom and he was yelling, “Well, then, don’t fucking come back!” and she was screaming “Well, maybe I fucking won’t!” and she stormed out of there and he yelled: “It’s not like we’re fucking married or anything!” and she was already slamming the door behind her (the door didn’t slam, hospitals doors don’t slam, I’m just saying this for dramatic effect). 

Well, fuck.

She came back. Of course she came back. There were a lot of things unresolved – administrative things, I mean, not… you know. And Quinn never thought she wouldn’t come back, not this Carrie. The “after Berlin” Carrie. He knew she cared. He knew she wouldn’t abandon him, but he was scared the fight had destroyed this fragile, luminous bubble they had miraculously established.

And yes, it had. The bubble had burst. When she entered the room a few days later (his heart jumped when he saw her), she didn’t kiss him hello, no “Good Morning Honey,” no ritual, she just sat near the bed and threw some papers at him.

\- You have to sign this, she said. Oh, and don’t fucking worry, you’ll get rid of me soon. We’ll get that fucking divorce the second you’re out of here.

\- Can’t wait, he muttered – and regretted it instantly – but what else could he say?

Now she was coming only once a week, sometimes twice, but rarely. Their conversations were cold and to the point, but – 

But… she was still here. 

He wondered. Why was she still coming? And she was staying, with him, for hours sometimes, helping him. But there was no connection, no affection, and he didn’t know how to fix it. 

Sometimes he thought he caught looks. Of… hurt. Doubt. Even a strange and unexplained shyness. But he was not sure, and…

It lasted for three weeks. 

Then Dar Adal arranged everything.

He stormed into Quinn’s room while Carrie was in an office downstairs somewhere, negotiating to get a bigger room for Quinn.

\- What’s this I’ve heard about you being married to Mathison? Dar said, furious.

\- That’s how you say hello? 

\- Look at me, Peter. Yeah, you seem sane. Doctors say your brain is working. So what have you done?

\- It’s not a real marriage.

\- Yes. I know, Fred told me; he talked with Saul. It’s even worse. Can’t you see she wants something?

Quinn laughed.

\- Oh, really? Carrie wants something? Sure, cause I have so much to offer. I mean, look at me.

\- You have money.

\- Come on.

\- What? I know how much, Peter. Or at least, I have an idea how much. Since that investment, after that deal in Romania...

Quinn just sighed.

\- Right. She is after money. That’s why she chose the CIA, for all these years, and not the private sector. For the money.

\- She is in the private sector now, Dar countered.

\- So she really doesn’t need me.

\- People always want more. And it’s not only the money, Peter. You…You are...

Dar hesitated, and Quinn interrupted bitterly:

\- I am… I am what? See? You can’t even fucking come up with anything. Because, yeah, I’m such a catch. A real trophy husband. Unemployed. Crippled. And even… I mean, look at my life. I mean, my diplomas – my background. Sure, she’ll want to flaunt me before all her friends.

Dar hesitated, before muttering.

\- If she even has any.

\- Come on. The money thing - even you don’t believe it.

\- Fine - but there’s something else then. Because there is something, I just know it. And I’m gonna tell her…

Quinn sat on the bed.

\- You’re not going to tell her anything.

\- Yeah, I am. You’re not rational when it comes to her, but I’ll make her admit…

\- _Leave my wife the fuck alone_ , Quinn seethed, before getting up, with a menacing air.

A short silence.

\- I can’t win this, Dar sighed, finally. Never could.

He put the things he had brought (cake, mostly) on the table, said good-bye, and left.

Quinn sat back on the bed, and closed his eyes for the tiniest fraction of a second... before Carrie appeared at the door to say:

\- Heard it all, gotta talk to Dar, back in a second.

\- What? You - you listened to…

\- Of course! Carrie said – and then bam, disappeared.

… leaving Quinn rewinding with anguish the details of the previous conversation. Did he say anything… compromising? Did Dar? Let’s leave him to that interesting task, dear reader, and follow Carrie.

\- Wait! she said, running after Adal. 

\- What? Dar answered, turning angrily around.

(And his exasperated “What?” sounded a lot like Quinn’s, to be honest.)

\- I heard what you said. To Quinn. I mean... I thought we were… (Carrie hesitated.) I mean, you and me, I thought we were coming to a sort of truce where Quinn was concerned.

\- That was before you fucking married him. I don’t even think consent is valid, in his weakened state.

\- Oh, fuck that. He consented just fine.

\- I’ll bet, Dar growled, and Carrie didn’t comment (or maybe she didn’t catch it).

\- Listen, I know you don’t like me, and I know we had our disagreements, she answered in her most reasonable tone. But I know you care about Quinn, and I swear, I am acting in his best interests…

\- You have a hidden agenda. I just know it.

\- I don’t, Carrie whispered. Not this time. Not with him.

Dar averted his eyes with, you know what? Real pain in them.

\- I wish I could believe you, he finally said. I wish… (He shrugged.) I hope he gets better, that’s all. Good bye, Mathison.

Then he left.

… and thirty seconds later Carrie was back in Quinn’s room, who was standing against the wall, looking – strange. A mix of prudence, defensiveness, and… something, which Carrie couldn’t analyze. 

She stopped, a few steps from him, and there was a silence. 

Both studying each other. 

Like a stand-off.

\- Listen, Quinn said, suddenly. I’m sorry. About that stupid fight. And everything after.

\- Yeah, she said, with a strangled voice. Me too.

And suddenly she was near him – she almost took him in her arms, he almost took her – but hesitation stopped them. He put a hand on her arm, she hesitated again, touched his shoulder:

\- You know, we can hug. I mean, we did it before.

\- Yes, said Quinn (awkwardly).

\- We’re married, Carrie whispered. It doesn’t count.

\- Ok, said Quinn, and they hugged, and it was super artificial and super (guess what) awkward, but then they sat on the bed and Carrie smiled and took his hand, and suddenly everything was perfect again.

\- So now you know, she said. I’m after your money.

\- I always wondered, you know? But congratulations. It was a helluva long con, Carrie.

\- I’m a pro. And you’re worth it, she added, holding his hand tighter. All those years invested, still worth it.

He didn’t talk for a while. Then Carrie asked:

\- What did Dar mean: “You’re not rational when it comes to her?”

But Quinn was prepared. (Remember all the “rewinding the conversation” part.)

\- Oh, you know, he said breezily. Your name, the box… I don’t think he liked the part where I got shot while disobeying my orders to kill you.

\- Orders given by a traitor.

\- Details.

They were very close, on the bed, hand in hand, shoulder against shoulder. Quinn’s heart was beating very fast.

\- “Leave my wife the fuck alone,” Carrie repeated. That was… so nice. And so strange to hear. I mean, I have never been someone’s “wife”.

\- Not a word I use every day, either.

Still hand in hand. Still, his heart, you know.

\- Damn. I’ve got to go, said Carrie, after a long while. Family, work, country. 

\- Yes, of course, you should go.

… he said, putting his arms around her shoulders, thinking about the kiss good-bye, because clearly, the bubble had been reestablished, the bubble was back, better than before - but what about the ritual – what about those kisses – “Good morning honey,” “Good bye honey,” of course he couldn’t ask, I mean, you didn’t ask about these things, you just did them, so maybe he should just –

\- And think about all the “Good bye, honey” we didn’t do, Carrie said, slowly. I mean, "say."

\- Yeah.

\- We were shirking our married duties.

\- Clearly.

She was still sitting, she was not looking at him, and now, well, are you sick of reading “Quinn’s heart was beating fast”? Because now, it was beating _so_ fast, he put his hand on her neck, drawing her to him, said, “good bye, honey,” and kissed her, briefly, tenderly, and… they detached, looking downward, both of them, a few seconds passed, and Carrie kissed him back. (Still briefly. But not too briefly. Let’s go with a sort of intermediate nature of briefness.)

After, she whispered:

\- Sixteen to go.

\- What? (He muttered, a little distracted).

\- I mean, we fought for three weeks, she explained, not looking at him. And there were three visits a week, and two, um…

(Her voice faltered, but she meant: “…and two kisses per visit,” of course, Dear Reader. You have to follow the Very Important Kissing Math.)

He kissed her again – instantly – he didn’t dare go any further, I mean, he didn’t dare deepen the kiss, or do more than what was expected of those “hello/good byes” moments, he counted, mentally, fifteen to go, I don’t know if Carrie counted when she did it again (now it was fourteen), and then the thirteenth kiss didn’t stop, just never stopped, went forever, bypassed hospitals and continents and – suddenly they were back in the room, her head was on his shoulder, he was holding her, he could feel her heart beating so fast too, he thought something was gonna give, that he was going to tell h…

\- It doesn’t count, she said. We’re married.

He looked at her – stunned - not knowing how to interpret that sentence, not knowing how to feel. Carrie stood up, she seemed flustered, her hands were slightly trembling, she repeated, “goodnight, honey,” kissed him again (a short normal kiss), and then, bam, disappeared.

 

(To be continued!)


	17. The One With The Fake Marriage (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on The One with The Fake Marriage:  
> Carrie and Quinn got married for medical and administrative reasons. A fake marriage. But then, he kissed her, and it seemed pretty real. But then, Carrie said: "We're married, it doesn't count!" and ran away.  
> Carrie can be a tad exasperating sometimes.

The following days crept by very slowly.

Quinn was kind of going crazy. Waiting for Carrie to come back. Reliving the scene, trying to find the meaning of, ‘it doesn’t count, we’re married.’ 

‘It doesn’t count,’ is never good, right? But it seemed to count though, she had been so…

… And then it was Sunday, she was back – “good morning, Honey,” she said with a huge smile. She sat on the bed near him, and he couldn’t bear the suspense and he just embraced her and kissed her directly, not the official short kiss, a passionate one, not brief at all, not by any definition of the term briefness. Then he stopped – but see, Quinn had a plan, carefully prepared and nurtured for three days, he looked at Carrie and asked, in a very nonchalant tone:

\- So does _that_ count? Because I have to know what counts and what doesn’t. The rules are unclear.

\- Um… It’s, I… Carrie stuttered.

\- Yes?

Who knows what she would have said if the doctor hadn’t arrived precisely at that instant. Carrie jumped to her feet – as if she was at fault somehow – and she looked so guilty that the doctor even said:

\- Ms Mathison. It’s fine. You’re married. And even if you weren’t, there’s no medical contraindication for kisses.

\- Exactly. Thank you, doctor. Right, Honey? Quinn said, in a breezy, ‘we’re married and bantering and having fun and nothing important is at stake at all’ voice, thinking, ‘it’s all or nothing,’ but it was “all,” because Carrie stayed.

She not only stayed, but she stayed longer than usual. All day, almost. They didn’t kiss again, not before the official, ‘good bye, Honey,’ but a huge shift happened.

It was as if the, ‘we pretend to be married, but really we’re friends, so we keep a healthy distance in the touching area,’ was completely abandoned. It was Carrie who made the first gesture by putting her arm around him to support him when he stumbled in one of those huge metallic elevators, but then she left her arm there – they were married, after all. “It doesn’t count,” he whispered in her ear when he put his arms around her shoulder a few seconds later, and she colored and laughed, and the nurse who was with them just rolled her eyes. And then they held hands most of the day, and…

Ok, stop. This is getting so mushy it’s disgusting. Let’s skip this part, where nothing interesting happens except lovey-dovey stuff. You don't need the details, I’m boring even myself here.

Let’s just sum up.

Second part of the honeymoon. 

With more trust, more intimacy, more touching (holding hands, taking each other by the waist, by the shoulders, Carrie was dozing in Quinn’s bed now sometimes, curled against him) and yes, more kissing. Twice a day, real kisses, one in the morning, one at night. And, nothing else. 

Nothing else happened, except…

Except, everything was happening. 

It was changing everything.

**

\- This has never happened to me before, he said. 

To her. One day. They were at his place…

“His place? He has a place?” I hear you protesting, Dear Reader. “Is he out of the hospital? Have they divorced already?” 

The answers are yes, yes, no and no. See, Quinn was still in the hospital, but he was allowed a lot of leeway now, he could go out for entire days, and check back in at night. Carrie said he could hang out at her place, but he felt awkward, and considering he was going to need an apartment soon anyway, he began to rent, and she visited, as much as she could. 

It was one of those days. When she was there.

She was lazily lying on the sofa. The sun was beaming outside – the AC wasn’t working - it was July, and it was hot. The light was slightly golden – it was one of those moments, one of those summer hours when everything seems suspended. Time seems to stop. 

Quinn was sitting in an armchair, not far from the couch – looking at her – her body, lying on the purple fabric – Carrie’s eyes were shut and a slight smile was playing on her lips. He was feeling it too, that strange pause that summer sometimes brings; all the clocks have slowed, he thought, everywhere in the world; he was watching her, couldn’t avert his eyes, thinking he had never been so in love – during these floating, unreal, eternal seconds. 

A car, or maybe a motorcycle, roared somewhere, very far away, then disappeared, and it slowed down time even more.

But again – this love he was feeling – it was not painful. How could it be – when she was here – when he had more of her, more intensity of presence – that he ever had before?

He suddenly realized Carrie’s eyes were open – she was watching him too. He didn’t start, he just changed his expression slightly from downright, well, love, to just affection. He had become a master at that lately.

Not that it always worked.

\- Why are you looking at me that way? she asked, smiling.

\- This has never happened to me before, he repeated. I never had this before.

\- What?

\- A relationship like this. 

\- What about Julia? Or other women?

\- Not the same. I was – I loved her, but there were a lot of things we couldn’t talk about. And I was playing a role, in a way. I couldn’t tell her about… doubts, or… 

\- You’d tell me?

\- I already have. I couldn’t play a role with you now, Quinn said, after a silence. Not after…

His voice trailed off – all these times, in the hospital, where he…

\- You’ve seen me in a pretty bad state too, Carrie whispered, after a pause. 

\- Yeah.

There was a silence, Quinn kept staring at her, still didn’t avert his eyes, dangerous game – but he thought he was playing it just ambiguously enough.

\- What’s in it for you? he finally asked. 

\- What do you mean?

\- This relationship. What’s in it for you, Carrie?

She looked a little puzzled – even slightly worried - they had never spoken about this before. Never directly. I mean, it was strange, more than strange, this thing they were doing. Married, but not together. No sex, nothing more than those two kisses a day. Except they were together all the time, and the holding, and the touching, and the… 

Carrie kept silent for a moment, deep in thought.

\- Ok, she said, after a while. I’m pretty lonely.

\- You have Franny. And a great job, with a lot of new colleagues. You’re pals with the future US President.

\- Franny is… She changed my life, but she’s a child, Quinn. And my job… you know me. I mean, when did I ever make friends at work? They think I’m competent, I hope. I scare them a little. I like Elizabeth, sort of. But it’s not the same.

\- So I’m all the friends you don’t have rolled into one? 

\- Yes. You’re my fucking connection with humanity. Is it a problem?

\- Nope.

\- Ok, Quinn. What’s in it for you?

He chuckled.

\- Come on, Carrie.

\- No… I really want to know.

Quinn closed his eyes.

\- Ok. Imagine things had taken another turn. Imagine you hadn’t forced me into marriage…

Carrie laughed.

\- Sounds very… medieval.

\- Imagine I had to face that recovery alone, Quinn continued. I would have become… bitter, hateful. I’ve seen it happen to wounded soldiers, a lot. Solitude. Alcohol.

\- Come on. You’re not…

\- You don’t know, Carrie. It’s… I would have run away, I think. Cooped up in that crazy place…

\- Run away? To what?

\- Prostitutes. Drugs…

Carrie was looking at him with a quiet horror. Her silence lasted for a few minutes, and Quinn saw the moment when she decided to go for a lighter tone.

\- It wouldn’t have happened. I would have sent Max to hunt you down.

\- Yeah, I think I could have evaded Max, thanks.

\- You underestimate him.

\- You underestimate me.

\- In your hypothetical ‘drugs and prostitutes’ state of mind?

\- Still would have won over fucking Max, Quinn grumbled, and then he smiled, because it was kind of funny, fighting about an imaginary situation, and Carrie smiled too.

\- This way is better, she said.

\- No kidding.

And there was a long silence again. 

\- Maybe high-end call girls _are_ a good idea, Carrie added, after a while. I mean, we’re not sleeping together…

\- Yeah, we don’t need sex in this relationship, he said, without thinking, and then…

Well.

Dear Reader, you know how the human brain works, right? I mean, if you say you don’t need one thing, you don’t want one thing, then instantly your mind just goes straight to it, right? It’s like saying, “don’t think about a pink elephant.” Or, “no, thank you, I don’t want this HUGE pile of strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. Nope. Strawberries. Chocolate. Not interested. At all.”

So… See, there was this heat… and the silence… and noises of construction, far away, somewhere, and…

And suddenly Quinn’s words were hanging in the room, just floating there, in the white room, and he was very conscious of the tension, and she was very conscious of the tension. 

And his sentence, still… there.

It took at least one minute – the longest minute in the world – before he stood up, walked to the sofa, sat down near her – his throat was tight - she was unmoving, staring at him – the air was very still.

He put his hand on her belly. She was wearing a grey tee-shirt – she felt the heat of his hand through the light fabric – she was still looking at him while outside another car drove past again, the noise getting stronger, then disappearing.

His hand slid underneath her tee-shirt.

\- It doesn’t count, he said. We’re married.

She half laughed.

\- Right.

His hand stayed there for a while. Then it moved slowly up. Got to her bra.

\- What do the rules say about this area?

\- The rules are unclear, she said. (Her voice… not totally steady.)

\- I say, it doesn’t count, he whispered, then he lifted her shirt and unhooked her bra and bent down and kissed her breasts, one after the other.

Slowly… everything was so slow, so silent, the sun, the light, time held still, her warm skin, he heard her breathing… so slow…

\- What about there? he asked, putting his hand on her thigh.

\- I… what do you think? Carrie whispered.

\- Doesn’t count.

\- Okay.

Her voice was almost inaudible, he caressed the interior of her thigh, and then leaned down and bit her there, not too hard, just so she could feel him through her jeans, she squirmed with a muffled laugh, then he kissed his way up, he was on top of her now, when he got to her face, her eyes were expectant. So he kissed her throat, very lightly – she put her hand on his back, underneath his black shirt, and ran her nails leisurely down – very deliberately, watching him. 

His breath caught.

She stopped.

\- Does that count? she said, with the sweetest smile. Should I continue?

\- Smartass, he whispered, smiling too – and something shifted in him – realization, maybe, of what they were doing – of what was happening – his smile died – their eyes never unlocking – and something snapped, he couldn’t be cautious anymore, he kissed her again and this time it was – passion – when he undressed her, when she smiled again and he read the longing there and he thought – maybe – passion when _she_ kissed him and suddenly everything accelerated, time got wonky, he remembered just pieces of it afterwards, images and sounds, her thighs again (so white) and her moans when he was inside her and he grabbed her hair for a while, and she seemed almost dazed and he knew he hurt her at least once when he bit her breast too hard but she didn’t protest, she just had a strange shiver and he wondered briefly if it would leave a bruise, and hoped it would, he remembered her moans, he remembered her hands, he remembered how she tasted, how her back arched, how it felt dreamlike and at the same time so there, he remembered everything.

Thus ended their wedding night. (Ok, ok, Dear Reader. More like a wedding afternoon.) 

They slept together for two months. 

**

(And yes, it had left a bruise. Which he kissed many, many times after.)

**

Then he was out of the hospital.

It was a strange day. He was leaving in two hours, he was getting his things ready, in this awful room he had hated so much, for so long.

And he was lucky. So lucky. He had money, an apartment, a friend. (Wife.) The others, so many others, they had nobody. They were alone, their family didn’t want them, or they were in this situation because they chose this life years and years ago and had no family. Or because their family had fucked them. And now, this existence, which they had chosen as escape, hope, to get away from their own fucked up families, had fucked them too. 

Yes, he was so lucky. You know how they say: “Count your blessings?” He was counting. Not alone. Not homeless. Not broke. Not... without hope, or faith. Carrie was a Christian, they talked about it, a few times; at first he didn't understand. She was so practical. She was the one who had almost blown up Saul that day. How could she be Catholic? But now, getting his meagre stuff into his military bag, he got it. No, he was not ready to believe in a bearded man in the sky or anything. But he had seen others. Like him. In the streets, or...

_There, but for the grace of God, go I._

Carrie, his last and best blessing, arrived at 5 pm, all business. Talking of papers and forms and treatments and schedules and divorce, of course, because he was out, out of this wretched place, so they had to talk divorce, right? Except... She didn’t. Talk about divorce, I mean. Yes, Dear Reader, the last sentence was fake. She talked about doctors and tablets but not about divorce. Every second, Quinn waited for her to mention it, but she didn’t.

She didn’t mention divorce when she helped him with his stuff and got out of the room, she didn’t mention divorce when they were in the elevator (instead she ranted about the lack of government funding and mentioned the name of someone Quinn didn’t know but who apparently didn’t do his fucking job), she didn’t mention divorce when they got to the check-out counter, she didn’t mention divorce when they got into the car. Then he really began to dread it because there was not much time left and Carrie didn’t seem to be in a good mood, something was going on at work and she ranted about it, yes, she ranted again, Quinn answered with sarcastic one liners because he was afraid of what was to come, and he wanted to seem detached, so he was becoming a little obnoxious, in fact, forgot all the talk about blessings and the strange peace he had sort of reached for a minute there, he got aggressive - so of course Carrie reacted:

\- What the fuck is going on with you?

\- Nothing.

\- You’re being an asshole.

\- Just being me.

(Not the best retort, but he was just out of the hospital and threatened with a Divorce Damocles, okay? Try being witty in those circumstances.)

\- O-kay, Carrie said, with a strange look.

Anyway, now they were in his apartment, she had finished helping him get settled and then – she was ready to leave – _now_ she was gonna mention the divorce, Quinn thought, NOW, but she just frowned and looked around like she was dissatisfied.

\- What do you say I pick you up for breakfast tomorrow morning? she finally asked. I know a great place.

\- Sure, Quinn said.

\- Good, Carrie said.

And then, bam, disappeared.

**

The following night crept by very slowly.

Quinn was kind of going crazy... Waiting for the axe to fall. In the morning, Carrie came to get him, they ordered the most expensive scrambled eggs ever (but hey, there was a slice of tomato on them! And unknown herbs! Totally worth the fortune they were asking.) He was silent and tense, gobbling coffee, and she said:

\- Would you like to go to Italy?

Quinn stared at her for a while before answering, with extreme prudence:

\- Italy?

\- I have to go meet the ambassador there – do you remember the clusterfuck about the guy? Yes, that guy? The guy who… You know the guy. Anyway I have to be there for three days, but I can lie and cheat a little and make it last five. And you could come, um, with me.

Carrie was fiddling with her coffee. Nervous.

Nervous. She was nervous. Actually, really _nervous_.

He couldn’t believe it. Believe what that nervousness meant. For her. For them.

Everything slowed down again, his throat got tight again. Then he smiled – tried not to, but couldn’t help it – his smile got bigger and bigger, and she began to smile too, her eyes shining.

\- Sure, he said. I’d love to go to Italy.

 

 

 

(To Be Continued!)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Lange-C for editing this and saving me from intense mortification! (There was a mistake, in part one... just saying.)  
> Thank you to Frangipani Flower who helped me with a crucial passage in this story!


	18. Love is pain, your highness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I misquoted the title. It's on purpose. (You recognize the quote, right?)

_Love is pain, your highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something._

**

She sees the text instantly but she doesn't answer instantly. She needs five minutes, at least.

An unknown number, and just "Carrie."

That fucker.

"Carrie. " That's all. Oh, she instantly knows it's him. Yeah. Fucker. Left for Syria, like that, without provocation, four fucking years ago. Four years! And not a trace, not a word! She thought he was dead, and good riddance, then she learned he was alive through random talk in a random conversation with random ex colleagues, she even learned he worked during eight months IN BERLIN, for Saul or something.

Berlin, where she lived. Where she lives, still.

Didn't even come to say hello.

Fucker.

Still she has no doubt it's him. Which makes no sense. An unknown number, and just "Carrie." It could be anybody. I mean, do you know how many lost contacts could try to reach her right now? How many people from her past? But no, she's CERTAIN it's Quinn.

Fucker.

Maybe she's psychic.

*What?* That’s what she texts back, too bad texts cannot convey her exasperation and her anger and her... whatever she’s feeling now. He doesn't answer, not for a while, and a vague guilt begins to creep in, because what if he's stuck somewhere and needs help? What if it's somebody else after all, who's stuck somewhere and needs help? But anger is still stronger, and if Quinn is lost, well, he deserves to get lost. She'd rather he answer, though. Just to be sure he's not dying of gangrene somewhere and this was his last cry for help. Wouldn’t it be darkly ironic? The last thing he’d see before croaking would be a furious "what?" At least she didn't add angry smileys, well, who cares, right? Someone who disappears for four years does not get the right to have friends worrying about him.

She wished he would answer, though.

He does. Five minutes later.

* Wanna get coffee some time? *

Fuck-er.

So yes, it still could be anybody. Anybody asking her out. Maybe Frannie's soccer coach, or her new colleague at the Foundation, the one who's working with Jonas. Jonas is Carrie’s ex-boyfriend, that was a mess, by the way, they dated for a year and a half. Turns out, it's not really fun to work in the same office with the man you brutally broke up with for no good reason. But please... back to people who are brutal in another way.

* Wanna get coffee some time? *

Fucker.

Oh, it's him alright.

Two hours pass, Carrie has not answered, she's still mad, and other confused feelings are somewhere too, she wants to cry, doesn't know why, there's a feeling of betrayal there somewhere, a deep sadness she didn't know she felt, or that she didn’t know she felt about this - I mean, about Quinn.

Betrayal is a strange concept. Carrie sees Saul sometimes, in Berlin, when he visits. Saul thinks Carrie betrayed him. They spent almost three years without talking, but things got better recently. They had lunch, four times. It's still awkward but they talk. And Saul told Carrie something he probably shouldn't have. For a while, he suspected Allison was a mole. Allison Carr was Carrie old colleague and Saul's... girlfriend, lover, whatever, anyway Saul began to feel something was wrong and had Allison followed. And what happened was... nothing. Saul found nothing, but Allison broke up with him and quit the CIA a few weeks later.

Leaving Saul with his questions. Was he right? Did Allison realize she was being followed, that she was burned and that’s why she quit her job to save herself? Or was Saul delusional?

“The doubt. It’s… painful," he says, to Carrie, while they are eating lasagna that time and it seems like a strong word, but Carrie gets it. Saul went through Allison's files after she left, didn't find anything.

Now he'll never know.

But that was... real. The Allison thing. Potential betrayal of your country, of the man you're sleeping with. Carrie's own sense of betrayal, what she feels toward Quinn is more vague, more unfair.

She looks at the phone again ( _wanna have coffee sometimes?_ ) (fucker) and you know, good thing she's in a restaurant because she swears, if she was at home, she’d have thrown that phone across the room.

In Berlin. For six months, a year and a half ago.

Didn't even deign to speak to her.

And suddenly she answers * ok *, without thinking, the truth is, she wants to check if it's him, if he's OK. She wants to see him, with her own eyes.

**

They decide to meet on Thursday night, in a bar, at eight. But they just texted, he never said his name, and as the day comes closer she feels unsure, maybe she did agree to a date with that coach after all. And time comes closer too, now she feels so nervous, what if it's not him, what if it is.

It's him.

She feels such a wave of relief. He's at the table. His usual self, black pants, dark tee-shirt. Oh God. For months, she thought he was dead. She even cried one night and hated herself for it – she forgot, now she remembers, she walks right to the table and sits in front of him, furious, saying:

"Four years, Quinn. Four fucking years. What the hell!"

He smiles, a huge grin, so amused, so... she doesn't know how to define what she sees in this smile then. She is not amused though, she continues:

"And you were in Berlin for six months. And you didn't even call me. You're such a fucking asshole."

His smile disappears. She doesn't know if it's her tone, or the memories associated with Berlin, but that makes no sense, because he's in town, right now.

He doesn’t say anything, so she goes on the attack.

“You didn't think about calling me?”

“Nope.”

Carrie feels sick. “So what have you done for four years?” she musters.

“Syria. Then Berlin, as you know. Then I quit, and travelled.”

She stares, flabbergasted.

“You quit?”

“Kind of. I told Adal I would, and I went through the process. But I can still work for him as an independent contractor.”

“And then?”

“Told you. Traveled. Golden cold skies over oceans. Industrial boats in frozen water,” he says, there’s bitterness and irony in his voice, and more. For a moment she imagines him, in endless horizons, walking.

He hesitates, before adding: “But the thing is…”

“Yes?”

He stops. And thinks for a moment.

“Now I've got a job in Berlin, for a few months at least," he explains. “Maybe permanently.”

“Wow," she says, trying to get her head around this.

It’s like she doesn't know this man. There’s a stranger sitting across the table. Sam, the bartender (he’s American, a lot of Americans in Berlin) comes to take their order. She almost asks for a whisky – she’s so shaken – before she remembers she’s sober.

Whisky. Bartenders. That was another life.

She looks at Quinn. Yeah, she doesn’t know this man. But still, she does. It's an odd feeling.

“So, are you single?” he asks, and she gapes at him for a moment. He doesn't repeat it, just gets his eyebrows up, but she finally shoots back:

“Don't you already know?”

“Maybe. But I'd like confirmation.”

“Yes, Quinn,” she says, exasperated again. “I'm single.“

“Can I invite you to dinner? Tomorrow, or some other evening this week? “

“Why?“

“I'm sure you can guess why, Carrie. You're a grown woman.”

Why is she so angry? But damn, she's pretty pissed.

“I don't want a fuck buddy, Quinn.”

There’s a silence. Then he shrugs.

“What do you want?“

She could say, I sure as hell don't want you, fuck you, crawl back into your hole, except then he would leave, and she just realized she doesn't want him to go.

There’s an intensity there, in their exchange, in this conversation that she hasn't felt for a long time. It reminds her of Brody. Or when Quinn left, to go get rid of Haqqani.

“I don't know,” is the best she can find. “Does it have to be serious?”

“Nope.”

A new silence. And Carrie is suddenly overwhelmed.

"I'll be back,” she says, and she walks to the ladies room, just to think for a while. Cause she suddenly has this soft... feeling, this sentimental wave or whatever, and she can't show that to him.

He really wants this.

Carrie is many things, but she's not an idiot. She said _I don't want a fuck buddy_ and then, _I don't want it to be serious_ and basically, he said _Sure, ok_ to both of those contradictory statements.

He really wants this.

She feels a little... I don't know, warm.

She gets back and orders another tomato juice. He looks indifferent and a little bored. Almost stifling a yawn.

Fucker.

“OK,” she says, with a light smile and an amused tone. (It's all very studied.) “Now we've got to find a compromise between ‘fuck buddy’ and ‘serious.' What do you propose?”

“Casual?” he says, in a casual tone.

“OK.”

“OK.“

“It's settled then,” she says, with her studied amused smile again.

And there's an uncomfortable silence. He nods. She doesn't know what to say. Again, she doesn't know this man. She doesn't know what he has done, what he has lived. What he has seen, in his journey.

“The thing is…” he starts.

And then he stops again.

“You look older,” she muses.

He chuckles. “Fuck you too.”

“You have lines around your eyes,” she explains, and you seem... weary.”

Another silence.

“I was sick of it all,” he finally whispers.

“Yes,” she whispers too. “I get it. Was it bad?" she adds, after a while. “Syria? Berlin?”

He gives a dry chuckle, and stops there, and she's mad again, she hates him again. But he doesn't give anything, and suddenly she realizes – she has to force this. They can miss it; they can miss this; it would be very easy to miss this - she pictures it: they go to dinner, it’s awkward, because neither of them know what to ask, what to avoid, and then they sleep together, and it’s fine, because why wouldn’t it be, but they are both be wary and tense, and then he doesn’t call her back, or she doesn’t call him back, not because they don’t want to, but because of this awkwardness, and suddenly it’s too late.

This opportunity is lost. All those opportunities lost. She wants to cry, again, but she doesn't.

“I feel betrayed,” she says, looking at him right in the eyes.

He stares back. Weary, wary.

“What do you mean?”

She has to force this.

“Because you left me and shipped off to Syria,” she explains. “Without a word, or a letter.” He just looks at her. “Because you didn't even contact me for four years. Because you were in fucking Berlin for six months, Quinn!”

“Does it mean our deal is off?”

“What deal?”

“Dating casually?”

“No, it's not off,” she says, furious.

Silence again. He looks so tired. He looks so sad.

How bad it must have been. Syria. Berlin, to have him quit. Fucking quit.

“Fuck you, Carrie,” he suddenly says. “I'm not here to rehash the past. Are you in or not?”

“Yeah. But you're an asshole, just to be clear.”

“Do you think I've got nothing against you?” he utters, his voice almost raw, and Carrie's rage abates again, brusquely. Because of course he's right, in his point of view, sure - she could see it – except -

“Maybe. But six months in Berlin,” she repeats.

Yes, she's doing it on purpose. He does not want to talk about the past, but she needs him to break. She needs to get in there, to see if it's viable.

“Fuck THE HELL off, Carrie.”

That slow, cold voice. The look in his eyes – sometimes she forgets he’s a trained, merciless killer.

But that’s part of the package.

“OK, she says. Let's make a deal. Tell me something – anything – anything… true. About this. About those six months. And I’ll answer a question too.”

Silence.

“I did see you,” he says, dismissively. Like it’s not a huge deal. “Here. In town. I looked for you. You were… busy.”

And that's all.

That's all he offers, but it's enough, and it changes everything. Carrie can’t even talk for a while.

“And now you’ve got a job offer here, in Berlin?” she finally says.

“Yep.”

New silence. What has he seen on his journey? she wonders, nonsensically. Mountains, hidden valleys, rocks and fire, storms and deserts.

“Carrie, the thing is,” he says, but then he stops.

“What is the thing, Quinn? You keep saying…”

He shrugs again. “Forget the thing.”

They look at each other. It's a standstill.

“Let's fuck,” he says.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Right now, in the bathroom.”

“Quinn, you're kidding.”

“No.”

“But…”

“What,” he says, “you're chicken?”

“Chicken? Are you kidding me? That's how you get girls? You ask them to fuck you and if they hesitate you say they’re chicken?”

“Mostly. Works fine.”

She looks for the amusement in his eyes, but there's none, there's anger, mimicking her own, he's mad at her too, old betrayals and ancient disappointments, but there's also... want. Hopelessness, and aching… desire, not necessary sexual, desire for connection - and she has an epiphany - he wants to force this too. He's thinking the same thing. He wants to break her, to reach her, and sex is his answer.

“Yes. Ok. Yes,” she repeats, and he takes her by the hand and leads her toward the bathroom, Sam the bartender is watching them, as are some of the clients, there’s a corridor, and another one, and then the ladies room, and Quinn closes the door and suddenly they’re kissing, they don’t stop, and it’s fiery and kind of wild, it lasts for a long long, long time and she feels – is it possible, that she meets him after four years, while really nothing happened between them before (almost nothing) and suddenly everything's burning - it’s impossible, right, love stories, they don't happen like this, but if - if - then... she doesn’t want to play around it, she doesn’t want to lie, she doesn't want to pretend, he's already unbuttoning her shirt when she whispers, her voice hoarse:

“Is it really casual?”

He stops.

“It can be more.”

“Good,” she says, “good,” she's almost choked up, and now they’re holding so tight. "I don't have a job in Berlin,” he says. “Not yet.”

Her head is lowered, she's a twist of emotion and desire, whatever he says they're gonna fuck, and fuck hard, cause she cannot wait anymore.

“The thing is…” he starts again. “During my trip…” He takes a deep breath, and yes, it’s all there, years and betrayal and hurt and rage but it's not all there is, and he says:

“During my trip, I saw only you.”


	19. A Perfect Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Advent Calendar Story for December 3** : A Perfect Day
> 
> Edited by the awesome and really pretty Leblanc1!! Thank you a thousand times again.

They had been together for a week. 

The most perfect part of the day was when they waited for Franny in that inside playground - activity center, whatever. The parents could have coffee on one side of the huge glass panel, and the children would play on the other, screaming and kicking and climbing and jumping, but the sounds were muffled by the glass. He and Carrie were sitting on a cheap sofa, the room was decorated with the usual Christmas stuff, checking their respective phones. Every ten minutes or so Frannie would come running, telling in a super excited voice what she had been doing before running off again. 

Carrie was leaning against him, their shoulders touching, their knees too. And when Frannie came running, this time she stayed. She was getting tired, so Carrie gave her a snack, and then Frannie laid down on their laps for a while, her head on Quinn and her legs on her mother. 

Carrie kept checking her phone. There was only silence, Frannie connecting them, and Quinn just looked at them both, for a moment, and it was the most perfect part of the day.

**

No. Actually, the most perfect part of the day was later, when they were waiting in line at the supermarket. Frannie was home with the nanny, and the line was long. There was nothing to do but stand and wait, so Carrie put her forehead on his shoulder, for no particular reason, just boredom really, and he kissed the top of her head. 

She raised her face with a puzzled smile. 

“I didn't know we were allowed to do that,” she said, in a low voice. 

“Is there a new law I should know about?”

“No, I mean…” She seemed a little embarrassed. “I mean, you and me.” 

“Why?” He bent down and whispered, “we’re sleeping together. Did you notice?” 

“Yeah, but…” Carrie looked around to check if anybody was listening. “I mean, we don't know how… what kind of couple we are yet. I mean, if we are a couple. I mean, I know we are a couple, but... “

He was so, so amused. 

“But?”

“Oh, fuck you.” she whispered. “I just meant I didn't know if you were the kind to do those things.”

“Do what?”

“Kiss my head in a supermarket! God!” she whispered with a exasperated air. “ I just meant, you didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who… You know.”

The conversation stopped there, he was smiling, she was smiling, her eyes bright, looking up at him, and he caressed her cheek briefly with his thumb, and then it was their turn to get to the cashier. 

And that smile, and that look from her, it was the most perfect part of the day.

**

No. The most perfect part of the day was when they were in bed, later. After... Well. You'd think that would have been the most perfect part of the day, obviously. But it was not. The sex was great, but it was just sex, he already had great sex, a lot, with women who were not Carrie. What he wanted, with her, was... he did not know how to define it, all he knew is that one week into their relationship, it wasn't totally there yet. But he has had glimpses of it - he knew it was what he looked for when his heart went suddenly crazy, during little things - when she brought him coffee in bed, or kissed the back of his head while he was on the computer, or when she said something tender and he choked and couldn't answer - so she was teasing him, saying he was cold and aloof – which was good. 

He liked that he was successfully pretending. With a woman like Carrie, you had to keep the upper hand. 

So the most perfect part of the day was after the sex. She had taken her shower first, then it was his turn, she was tired, yawning, he was exhausted (still had problems sleeping), he thought she would just drift out but for some reason she cuddled near him and put her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He put his arm around her, she put her leg on his thigh, he put his other leg on hers, and soon they were so intertwined, he was caressing her back, and she whispered:

“So we’re allowed to do that too?”

“No”, he answered, but didn’t move. 

“See? Still cold and aloof. I’m doing all the work in this relationship,” she grumbled, against his shoulder.

“You don’t seem too worried though.”

“Oh, I feel quite secure. I had insider info.”

“About us?”

“About you. And me. Yeah.”

“People lie,” he said, and he felt her smile against his skin. 

“Not this time.”

He felt vaguely curious, maybe she was talking about a conversation with Astrid, or with Dar Adal? But it didn’t make sense that any of them would… Or maybe she had read something – in his file, maybe? Anyway, he didn’t really care, and more than that, he had to seem not to care – cold and aloof, that was the plan. 

Except he was still caressing her back. 

Suddenly she extricated herself from him and sat up, with a concerned air.

“We have to talk about this,” she announced.

“About what?”

“About what kind of couple we are. Are we… reserved? Romantic? Do we confide in each other? Are we cold, but secretly happy to be with one another? Are we… having sexy banter? What?”

He rolled his eyes.

“For fuck sake. What about waiting to see what happens?” 

“Yes. That’s totally me. I’m the kind who likes to wait and see.”

He smiled again. 

“Sorry, Carrie. You’ll have to wait this time.”

She rolled her eyes, laid down near him again, and he took her in his arms again.

“What do you want, Quinn?” she whispered. “I mean, in a relationship?”

There was a silence, and then he said, after a while: 

“Trust.” There was a pause, and he added, “absolute trust.”

… thinking about how he was already cheating with this cold and aloof thing. Thinking of all the ways he was lying, of all the things he was hiding.

A minute passed.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I want that too.”

Then she closed her eyes, and his chest hurt, he didn’t know why, it was Christmas somewhere, he thought, except that didn’t make any sense because it was December 3, and he didn’t even like Christmas, didn’t hate it, just wasn’t interested, but still that strange thought crossed his mind, and he felt her drift off to sleep in his arms, and that moment, exactly there, that was the most perfect part of the day.


	20. A really, really Imperfect Day

They had been together for seventeen days.

The most perfect part of the day was the night before, actually. They were in bed, lights off. Ready to sleep, not touching, just lying there, and suddenly she put her hand on his arm, and just… caressed it. Yes, his arm, nothing sexy, but she turned to him, and looked at him in the dark (he assumed) and kept caressing him, like she couldn’t believe he was here. 

Alive. 

And he couldn’t believe she was here either, so he let her do it, and then they slowly went to sleep.

**

No. The most perfect part of the day was in the morning. Maggie and Josie had sent a special package for Frannie, not for Christmas (it was only December 11th) just, you know, a December package, homemade cookies and a doll that Josie had sewn herself (all this generation was very much into arts and crafts.) Anyway, Frannie was expecting the gift, and when the UPS guy rang the doorbell (at 7am!) she jumped up and down with excitement. Of course she had to open her present right away, on the floor near the Christmas tree so, yes ok, fine, it had a Christmas morning feeling; Carrie was watching her daughter, silently smiling, Quinn put his arm around her waist and – the moment felt frozen in time – he was at the same time very happy and very sad – thinking of lost moments and moments to come – he held Carrie closer, she put her hand on his – and it was perfect, and a little heart wrenching, in the cold morning light.

(But the cookies were delicious.) 

**

“So what was the insider info?” he asked suddenly, a few hours later, in the afternoon. 

They were sitting on the couch, both on their phones, except she was not checking her email, she was contemplating a broken lightbulb in the ceiling fixture.

“Mmm?” she answered. “Sorry, what?”

Quinn put his phone down.

“You said that I was cold and aloof with you, but you were not worried, because you had insider info. About me.”

She stared at him. “Quinn, what the hell are you talking about?”

He sighed. “A week ago. You said you felt secure in our relationship because you had some information. A document, that you read – or… someone had said something, or… I don’t know. You tell me, Carrie.”

He knew her well, very well, so he could just watch her face and follow the steps. First there was sincere bewilderment in her eyes, then she searched her memories, and… suddenly she was wary. On her guard. 

He straightened a little.

“So there is something,” he said slowly.

“No, I was just joking around.” She stood up. “I’m going to change this lightbulb, it’s really bugging me.”

He stood up too, nonchalantly. He nonchalantly leaned against the edge of the table. He nonchalantly said, “What are you hiding, Carrie?”

“Nothing. I was just – I mean - it was a joke,” she was not looking at him, she walked to the kitchen area, found a new lightbulb, pulled up a chair and prepared to climb onto it.

“Let me do this,” he said.

“No, I can do it.” 

“I can do it.”

“Come on, Quinn? How many ex-CIA operatives does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“Two, if the first one is LYING.”

She sighed. Then turned to him. “Fine. It was Virgil, ok? You know how we had him spy on you at first - and I don’t remember when exactly - years ago - he told me that you had a crush on me. There. Now you know. Happy?”

“Ok,” he said, then he grabbed the chair, ready to climb onto it, but she grabbed it back, she was not really looking at him, and it was so fucking obvious - so he tried to hide his growing irritation and just said it.

“You’re still lying.”

Carrie paused, her hand on the chair.

“There is something you’re not telling me,” he added, and yes, he was getting annoyed. “Do you remember the conversation we had? About trust?”

“Of course I remember,” she said, after a pause. “Fuck, Quinn, listen…” She sighed, paused again. “Yes. You are right. There is something I’m not telling you. But I… don’t want to tell you, ok? Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Let me do this,” he said, grabbing the chair again, with an exasperated tone, but she had already begun to climb onto it, lightbulb in hand, and he just rolled his eyes. 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?” 

“Why is this bothering you so much?” she asked, unscrewing the broken bulb.

_Stay calm._

“Imagine, if I had some secret info on you, Carrie. And I said, ‘Oh, forget it, it’s nothing important, I’m not telling you.’ You would already have me chained up in the closet and injected with some sort of truth serum.”

“Maybe I have valid reasons for not telling you.”

“That makes it worse.”

“I’m not… That’s the way it is, Quinn. Deal with it.” 

“Nice way of trusting me. Are you going to change that bulb or what?” 

She threw the used lightbulb at him – he caught it – “Why would you want to change a light, you like the daaaarkness so much?” she muttered, a little low, but he heard it and frowned.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Carrie took a deep breath. “Listen,” she said, after a few seconds. Still standing on her stupid chair. “This is a really, really dumb fight. Who cares what I learned or where? I mean, isn’t the important thing that you love me now?”

“I don’t love you,” he answered, instantly, without thinking.

There was a silence. 

Carrie slowly screwed the new lightbulb in. She climbed down from the chair. 

She was very pale.

She stayed silent a few minutes more, pretending to fuss around, she didn’t talk, she was clearly so hurt, so fucking hurt. Quinn was feeling sick – why on earth had he said that? What had come over him? When it was so evidently untrue – but he was – so irritated – ok, so mad – and then, you know, pride, and…

Carrie turned to him, forcing a smile.

“Of course. Sorry. Wrong choice of word. I mean, obviously, we’ve only been together for…” She made a dismissive gesture and her voice trailed off. 

They just stayed there – it seemed everything had gone greyer – he was such a fool, such a fucking fool, these days (seventeen days) had been so… It had been a fragile, silvery miracle - both of them, in their wonderful, small, self-contained universe - true, they hadn’t talked about love, but that was because it was just assumed that… And now… He had damaged – or destroyed - Carrie raised her head, forced a smile again, and repeated:

“Sorry again. Just a slip of the tongue. Listen, do you mind, um… leaving? I have work to do and…”

“I live here,” he stated, slowly.

“Yes, I know, I mean…” She was so… white. It was like something had broken. 

Quinn shook his head. “I’ll leave. I need air anyway.”

And two seconds later he was gone, Carrie slowly walked to her bedroom (their bedroom?), feeling sick, she didn’t sit on the bed (the bed was contaminated, by him,) she just stayed standing, near the bedroom window, as far as possible from the door (from wherever he was now,) as far as possible from Frannie too, if she decided to wake up – Carrie didn’t want to cry – again, Frannie could show up – and then Quinn entered the room – it was only at that moment she realized she had not heard the front door close.

“Please leave,” she said.

“No.” He walked to her, took her in his arms directly. “I lied,” he said, and his voice caught. “I just… It was a lie.” 

“Which part?” she breathed. 

He held her closer. “Guess,” he answered, in a whisper.

“I know,” she finally whispered back. "I mean, I knew it was a lie. 

He couldn’t help chuckling. “Oh, you knew?” 

“Yes,” she added, and then she detached from him, and hit him, in the shoulder, with her fist, playfully, but… You know what? Not that playfully, actually. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a fucking asshole,” she uttered, her voice strangled. 

She tried to hit him again – he caught her fist. “Yeah.”

“You just… Fuck. You’re talking about fucking trust, Quinn, and then you…”

“Yeah,” he said again, still holding her fist… It seemed like the prudent thing to do.

“Shit. That was way worse than withholding information.”

“I know.”

“Can you let my hand go?”

“Is it wise?”

But he did let her go (because, trust). She was deep in thought for a while, then she walked to her nightstand, searched her drawer, found an envelope and gave it to him.

“There,” she said, her voice a little unsteady. “That’s my insider info.”

He opened the envelope while she was explaining, “Dar thought you were dead, well, as good as dead, and he gave it to me. I didn’t want to tell you because… I don’t know, to protect you. You had written some pretty intimate stuff and I thought… that you wouldn’t like the fact that I…”

Quinn began to read. “God,” he breathed. “I had completely forgotten about this.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was… Ok.” He kept reading for a while. “Fuck. Well… not the happiest period of my life. Not that it got better after,” he said, in a low voice. She didn’t know what to add, he put the letter down and looked at her, “I admit - that was pretty crazy. But, again… It had been a really, really bad week.”

“I remember.”

“Yeah.” He thought for a while. “Ok, so, now, it's official.” He paused. “I said it, and you have it in writing.”

“You didn’t actually say it…”

“Don’t push your luck, Carrie.” 

**

The most perfect part of the day was that night. They were in bed, lights off, ready to sleep, and suddenly she took his hand. And he turned to her and just looked at her in the dark, and she looked back (he assumed) and put her arms around his neck. But they didn’t kiss. He caressed her shoulder, slowly. 

“Sometimes I cannot believe you’re alive,” she breathed. 

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re here,” he answered, whispering, and he felt at the same time very happy and very sad – thinking of lost moments and moments to come - and then they slowly went to sleep.


	21. The One Where Quinn Fires Carrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Ascloseasthis who selflessly and heroically continues to edit my stories!

When she entered his hospital room, after he's been shot in the gut, in the fucking tailor shop, the experience was not particularly pleasant. She was so intense, a streak of light, it made the world duller when she was gone. He mostly disliked her, but he still let his hospital gown fall down on the floor before she left, standing in her presence stark naked. For no particular reason.

In the weeks after, she really got on his nerves. Disobeying his orders. Being brilliant but insufferable. 

So he fired her. 

It was pretty simple. He said it to her face: “you’re fired.” Estes supported his decision - so happy to have an official reason to get rid of her. Saul protested, Saul protested a lot, he tried to pull strings, he moved heaven and earth to get Carrie back, but Quinn held firm. 

She was too much of a liability. 

Weeks passed. 

And yes, the world was a little duller. He missed the electricity that filled the room, any room, when she was in it, polarizing the air. He missed the way her brain worked too fast for most people to follow. 

So three and a half months after, he went to her house and rang her bell. 

“Hey, asshole,” she said, when she recognized him, after a fraction of second. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” he said. “Black. Let me in.”

“No. Why?”

“Cause I've got things to tell you.”

He knew curiosity would get the better of her. A minute later he was in her living room. “If you're here to hire me back, you can go to hell,” she said, but there was a tiny sliver of hope in her voice. 

“Nope,” he answered, looking around, a lot of traces of her operative persona plastered on the walls, maps, photos, articles, pictures of fucking Brody and fucking Brody’s funeral. Carrie followed his stare. 

“You killed, him right?” she spat. “I mean your fucking men. Estes ordered his death, right?” 

“Don't know what you're talking about,” Quinn answered, of course he had put the bullet in Brody’s head himself, but he would not tell Carrie that, would be counterproductive in those circumstances. 

He looked right at her. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

She looked at him, stunned. 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Not the answer I was hoping for, but it I suppose it’ll have to do.”

“Are you kidding me with this?” Carrie was furious now. “You fired me!”

“And did the world a favor.” 

“And now you're asking me out?” 

“Completely different set of qualities required.” 

Curiously enough, that didn’t seem to appease her.

“Again, go fuck yourself.”

It hurt a little. Her “no.” More that he had expected. Ridiculous. I mean, he had not seen her in months. 

He looked around again. 

“Hey, since I’m here anyway, I have a question for you.”

He explained the Javadi situation, well the part that was not classified, and, ok, a bit of the part that was, he couldn't imagine Carrie betraying them, and what he said would not have been useful to anyone anyway. But he wanted to hear her thoughts, so he bet on the fact that she would not resist giving them, despite her anger – he was right, they had a long conversation about methods of entrapment, it was fascinating, seeing her brain awakening, neurons firing, sheer brilliance, making everything sharper – again, not a particularly pleasant feeling, but he was mesmerized. 

“Ok,” he said, when they were over. “Great. Thank you for the input.”

“Yeah. You're still a fucking asshole.” 

“But a perceptive one,” he answered, walking out. 

So he was never going to see her again. On the other side of that door, a greyer world was waiting.

“You should reconsider my proposition,” he said, on the steps. “We’d go very well together.”

“Fuck you,” was her answer.

“Just give it a thought. A good, five minutes thought.”

Then he was gone, wondering. Really wondering. 

She texted him two hours later.

* I reconsidered. Italian restaurant. You pay. Better be very expensive. *

One year later, he told her about Brody. After the fight that ensued, they didn’t speak for three whole months.

Two years later they were married.


	22. Wait, Quinn. You still have chocolate on your butt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Leblanc1! :) :) This story is for you!
> 
> Thank you to the beautiful Frangipani Flower for organizing this wonderful Fic Advent Calendar. And thank you (it's ironical) to Frangipani Flower and Zeffy for giving me that prompt. Because yes, it was a prompt. See title. That title, it was my prompt. Sigh. Yes, I know.

“Wait, Quinn. You still have chocolate on your butt,” Carrie said. 

He turned his head, tried to look, couldn’t, walked toward a mirror in the poorly lit room. It was not a bad thing that the light was low, though, because everyone was naked, men and women – they were in Köln, Germany, in a thermal spa, you know, water that even the Romans enjoyed at the time, it was a whole complex, with a labyrinth of rooms, hot and cold pools, saunas, outdoors gardens with even more hot and cold pools, and yes it was “no clothes please and thank you” place, totally co-ed. Quinn was a little surprised at first, but really, with the fog and the semi obscurity you didn’t see much. Also, humans adapt quickly to social cues – if you are in a place where nobody cares, you cease caring very fast too.

Oh yes – sorry – the chocolate. That was the chocolate scrub. In one of the rooms, you could have a whole body chocolate scrub, it was included in the price. So you know, when in Rome… (Or in Roman Baths)… 

“The chocolate… It’s down on your left… cheek,” Carrie explained, then she moved her hand to show it to him, and stopped. And frowned. And blanched. Quinn looked at her with surprise, but understood quickly that her eyes were fixed on his soulmark, written in neat letters on his lower back. The soulmark was, of course, “Carrie.”

Soulmarks appeared on your body when you were sixteen – or not. The soulmark was always a name, generally a first name, and, tradition said, the name of your soulmate. Except the universe was fucked up, so: some people had a soulmark and some people didn’t. Some people’s soulmarks were paired – like, if a guy named “Julian” had “Daisy,” then “Daisy” had “Julian”, but, believe it if you can, those were a minority. The Daisys and Julians were the lucky ones. Most of the time, the soulmarks were NOT matched. Oh yeah! What a system, right? I mean, like humans have too much fun and happiness in the world anyway, so let’s fuck up their existences a little more, you know. Give them MORE opportunity for despair.

Carrie raised her eyes – still astonished – and met his. He just looked at her. “What?”

“Your fucking soulmark, Quinn,” she whispered – they were not alone in the room.

“What?” he repeated – not in a good mood. Chocolate scrubbing, not his thing. “You’ve seen it before.”

“No!” Carrie protested. “Where… When do you imagine… I didn’t know… I’ve never seen that thing!”

Carrie and Quinn hadn’t slept together, not even once. They had kissed, after Carrie’s father’s funeral, but it amounted to nothing, then Quinn left for Syria, no contact for two years, now they had just reconnected, in Germany, for a mission. 

That was not the purpose of the baths, though. They were not soaking in hot water for the mission. That was for pleasure. The guy that they were following had gone and some other guy was supposed to come to Köln in two days time, so, basically, they were on a break.

“You’ve seen my mark at the hospital,” Quinn explained. “When I was shot in the gut?”

“No! I didn’t!” Carrie protested. “Wait, was that the reason you disrobed? In the hospital room? Is that why you showed me your ass?”

“No,” he protested, angrily, and then – wait. Was that the reason? He shrugged. “I don’t care about those fucking soulmarks. I mean, I’ve never kept it a secret. I see no reason to.”

Carrie had no soulmark. Quinn had looked, as soon as she had exited the women’s locker – yes, you could use gendered lockers, and why, considering that after getting rid of your clothes everybody was naked together anyway… Told you: the universe makes no sense. Anyway, Quinn was so afraid Carrie would have “Brody” written somewhere on her. It was years later, but for some reason, that would have been unbearable.

But no. Skin, perfectly smooth. Nothing written. No one. 

Made fucking sense, actually.

They walked out of the chocolate room (not a sentence you write every day,) still naked. And yes, if you are wondering, Quinn had wiped the chocolate off his butt. Again, not a sentence that you, you know.

Carrie’s view of the universe was spinning.

“I want to do the sauna-cold bath merry go round again,” Quinn said.

Off to the sauna they went.

Why was Carrie’s view of the universe spinning? Difficult to explain. Fuck, she knew Quinn had been kind of in love with her, right? That is why she had asked him to come in Islamabad with her – she knew he would say yes. And after, he had kissed her and asked her to start a relationship, so, sure, but see, “kind of in love with her” does not mean… Fuck. A fucking soulmark, that’s a whole different level. 

“There are a lot of Carries in the world,” she said, when they reached the big pool sublevel again.

Quinn just glared at her, with a mix of irony and exasperation. “Yeah, Carrie. Sure.”

Yep. Irony so thick it could fall on your head and kill you.

Fine. Sauna. Everybody sitting on wooden benches, a lot of people (and I mean a lot), air smelling of rosemary. Carrie was rewinding all of their history through the soulmark filter. So, Quinn met her – when they were Brody hunting, and he was rather obnoxious (Quinn, not Brody,) but also, pretty curious about her. Then – something changed – Quinn's whole attitude changed. He had taken the decision that she was the one whose name was written on his lower back, she supposed – and then he was at her side, protecting her. Not asking for anything in return. 

Fuck. 

“That whole soulmark system is screwed up,” she whispered.

“Oh, no… Really?”

“Sarcasm is not helping the conversation, Quinn.”

“Why is there a conversation?” 

“Are you kidding me?”

“What, Carrie, _what_?” he said, a little too loud. People stared disapprovingly. Quinn lowered his voice. “Why on earth would my mark matter? It is not new information. Actually, believe me, it is OLD information. Not relevant anymore.”

She looked at him, furious. Yes, it was NEW information, and fuck, how could it be not relevant anymore? It was tattooed on his butt! Ok, not his butt. His lower back. How could a name be old information when it is branding your skin for always – forever? She was ready to yell all that at him when he put his hand on hers. She thought – for a second – it’s not important what she thought because Quinn whispered, in a very low voice:

“The man. Black hair. Five o clock.”

Fuck. Yes. That man – naked, sweating, a little overweight, conspicuously looking elsewhere. 

She nodded. “Familiar.”

“Yep.”

Three Japanese looking women stood up to go, so Quinn and Carrie seized the opportunity, exited the room (casually,) and walked to the other side of the pool, in a darker corner, near the warm luminous cascades and luxurious folding chairs.

“Who?” Carrie asked.

“This is… I don’t remember his name, but it’s someone of the Armano team.”

“What?” Carrie frowned. “That was an eternity ago…”

“Yes.” Quinn was thinking. “It could be a coincidence. After all, they had a German office.”

Carrie shook her head. “If we recognized him, he could recognize us. In fact, I’m sure he did.”

“How do you know?”

“The way he sat, with a slight different angle than the rest of them. The way he looked on the left, while everybody looked down, or had their eyes closed. I think when you saw him, he had just noticed us, then turned slightly away, to pretend he had not.”

Quinn had a slight smile. “Carrie’s magic.”

Then he looked towards the sauna, thinking. Carrie was thinking too.

Magic. 

That was it. That was why her view of the universe had shifted.

The soulmarks were… magic. A totally unexplained element in a word defined by science, a piece of wonder in an otherwise dreary, rational universe of secret services and murders and terrorism and death and general horror – of course, the existence of soulmarks, their concept, was not news to Carrie, but as she didn’t have one, they didn’t concern her, so basically, she had never thought about it – never analyzed the idea.

But now… Now, it was about her. Very much about her. In a brutal, obvious way. The concept was staring at her really, cause they were still very much naked, and Quinn had turned her back at her to watch the sauna. 

Yep. Soulmarks. And what they signified. Right there, written in an elegant cursive, on Quinn’s lower back. _Carrie._

Like he was branded. Like he belonged to her.

“Best case scenario,” Quinn explained, “he’s hoping we didn’t recognize him, and he’s getting the hell out of here. Worst case, he wants revenge for their debacle. And he’ll be calling for back up.”

“He can’t,” Carrie pointed. “His phone is in the locker upstairs. Like ours.”

“Ok. Second worst case scenario, he will try to get rid of us right here, right now, on his own.”

“His weapon is also in his locker upstairs – if he has one. That’s the advantage of naked baths. Nobody has anything.”

“Oh,” Quinn pointed out, “I have a gun.”

Carrie just smiled. “Oh, really? Where?”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “In my bathrobe, Carrie.” He made a discreet nod toward a blue folding chair, where the bathrobe casually laid, casually rolled in a bundle. 

“For fuck sake, Quinn. There are children in here.”

“And killers.”

The guy got out of the sauna.

Quinn and Carrie both tensed. Oh yes, that man was conscious of their presence, for sure. The way he walked. The way he carried himself. The way he looked at the room, trying to spot them.

Then he did. 

He averted his eyes instantly, before walking away, through a door that led outside to the gardens.

“Ok. We’re getting out of this place right now,” Quinn decided. “If I have a gun, he can have a phone. Go. Go. Out.”

Carrie nodded – Quinn grabbed his bathrobe (and the gun,) they quickly went past a first set of showers, then up the stairs ¬, “through here, it’s a shortcut,” Carrie said, they hurried, a second set of stairs, “this is a fucking labyrinth,” Quinn muttered, he was leading the way, Carrie couldn’t help looking at the “Carrie” on his back, all the times he had yelled at her, all the time he had said, “What the fuck Carrie,” or “Fuck you Carrie,” did he think about it? Did he pronounce the name “Carrie,” thinking, “Carrie,” that is my soulmark? That is the name written on my skin? Those thoughts were a tad distracting, and of course that is the moment the guy chose to begin shooting at them.

So he had a gun with him after all. Hidden in the gardens? Or maybe he had the time to go back to the lockers, because he was shooting at them from the top of the stairs… Anyway, obviously, all around, people screaming, fleeing, Carrie jumped behind a blue pillar, Quinn was also behind something, already shooting back, people screaming even more, but there were two shooters against them, Carrie realized, one of them on their left, fuck, their enemies had thought this through, fuck, why the fuck had she not brought a gun? She looked around desperately – and spotted the third one – who was getting closer, right behind Quinn – everybody naked, of course – she yelled “Quinn!” and began to run to draw the third guy fire on her, it worked, Quinn got the message, he ran and shot and was at her side but they were cornered, three guns against one, bullets flying, they retreated in a room with a hot pool with underwater music, not far from the chocolate one. Main asset of the room: it had a door, Carrie began to close it, too late, one of the Armano guy got through, he and Quinn shot at the same time, Quinn was unhurt, the guy got a bullet through his head, Carrie closed the door.

The killer’s body fell in the blue water, very blue, in the blue basin, with underwater lighting and underwater music. Deeper and deeper, leaving a red streak behind.

That was when Carrie made her choice. But she realized it only later.

The door was shut – and – well – the story ends here. Because it was a big, thick, old wooden door – they were in the older part of the building – and that thick old wooden door had a basic, old bolt, Carrie locked it right away, and yeah, good luck, Armano guys. Try to open it now. There was no lock you could shoot. And the wood was about three inches thick – a big thank you to historical buildings. Yeah, try shooting through that.

There was no other entrance in the room, so basically, they were saved. Trapped, but saved.

Quinn looked at the body in the water and lowered his gun. All they had to do now was wait. The police would arrive, chase the bad guys, probably Carrie and Quinn would end up arrested but the embassy would get them out faster than lightning. See? End of story.

They stayed near the door for a few moments, trying to hear what was happening outside. There was still a shot or two, people yelling, other people saying, in German, to stay calm, then some excited voices and maybe some crying. 

Time passed. They sat down, side by side, on the mosaic tiles. Their backs to the wall, looking at the pool with the dead guy inside. 

Quinn still with his gun in hand.

“So, about that soulmark,” Carrie began.

Quinn just rolled his eyes. “Please, that again? We just got shot at.”

“And now we’ve got plenty of time for a serious conversation.”

“Let’s have a conversation. About why three Armano guys, yes, three, were in that spa. I think they were there for us.”

Maybe they were. Carrie didn’t care, strangely enough. 

“Soulmarks are magic,” she continued, “but they are an imperfect system with a lot of unfairness.”

Quinn sighed. “Yes. Thank you, Carrie, for that insight. So, I'm thinking, after Armano's death..." 

"But why would a system like that even be created? And by whom?"

He sighed again. "You know, there have been hundreds, no, thousands of books written on the subject over the span of human history. Philosophy books. Morality books. Scientific books.”

“But that is the problem, Quinn! Soulmarks prove that science is not the answer.”

Scientists from the XXe and XXIe century had decided that soulmarks were not magic, that they were just science that no one has discovered yet. Which made sense. Except it didn’t, because soulmarks didn’t follow the _other_ scientific rules. Like, they couldn’t be erased. If you cut off the skin, they reappeared on the new skin, or on the horrible scarred flesh. They couldn’t be burned. They couldn’t be drowned in more ink. They were a little pocket of absurdity, not following any laws, not obeying Newton, Einstein, whoever, whatever.

Magic.

Carrie’s world had never been magic. Carrie’s world had been illness, her mother leaving, death, depression, pain. Magic? Magic, love, sparks and light, the unknown and the beautiful, not for her, never for her.

But now, _that_ was for her. 

Quinn was for her. She looked at him – blue eyes and thin body, white skin, scars, soulmark. The universe had given her that man. Magic has brought her an incredible gift, a beautiful, fragile, complex gift, just for her.

She looked at the dead body, still bleeding. And she realized the decision she had made a few minutes ago. Did she want a world with dead people in pools? Or did she want… 

That other world. Where things could be unexpected, and beautiful, and for her.

“Let’s try,” she said.

“Try what?”

“You and me. A relationship.”

Quinn looked at her – he was NOT happy.

“Oh, fuck you, Carrie. _No._ What, why…? Is it the mark?”

“Yes, the mark, Quinn! Of course it is the fucking mark!”

“What does it fucking change?”

“It changes everything! How can you not see that, Quinn! It means… there is another system at work. Something more. And that something said that… that you were for me.”

“Oh, I am for you? Fuck you again. First, I am not for you. I may have had… a crush on you, two years ago, but that is so over.”

“It is not over.” Carrie gestured toward Quinn’s back. “It is written right there.”

“This could mean any fucking thing. And could be any Carrie.”

“Yeah, like you believe that.”

“Yeah, what you’re gonna do? Yell at me till I change my mind and fall in love with you again?”

Carrie shook her head, exasperated. “That soulmark means…” She nodded at the pool slowly filling with blood. “It means there are other forces in play. That there is more to life than this.”

“Groundbreaking. Take a yoga class. Or the veil. And leave me the fuck alone.”

Carrie looked at him, silently, for a long moment – till he felt a little embarrassed. “What?”

“I’m trying to see this from your point of view.”

“Don’t fry your brain.”

“How many Carries did you actually meet, Quinn? In your life? For real? Women that you talked to? Because it’s not that usual a name, actually.”

“If I had my phone, and Google, I could show you how many Carries live in the United States, right fucking now.”

“And how many did you meet? Do you… Do you remember when you met me?”

There was a silence. Quinn closed his eyes, put the back on his head upon the wall, and thought for a moment – at first, Carrie imagined he was just counting the Carries, but the silence lasted too long for that.

“Of course I remember. And the answer is two,” he finally said. “I met two. Including you.”

Carrie frowned – feeling a little jealous. “Who was the other one?”

“She was sixty years old. And dumb.” His voice had changed. There was something, something that was not there a minute ago. Carrie studied him for a while. The expression on his face.

Something like weariness, and pain.

“Quinn, this is important. I wish we could talk about this. Really talk. Just, you know, say the truth.”

“What truth is there?” His eyes were still closed. “Soulmarks… It’s a random system, it doesn’t work, people look for meaning where there is none, because that is what humans do, Carrie. Search for meaning. When there is none.”

“Oh, but that is not true. Because, let’s be logical about this.”

Quinn opened his eyes. They were sad, but he smirked anyway. “Let’s be logical about soulmarks?”

“Let’s be logical about yours. The system does work. It sent you to me. What were the chances that you met, in your line of work, a “Carrie,” your age or about, physically your type, single, or mostly single, with a personality you’d appreciate?”

“Pretty high? I don’t fucking know, Carrie. And I don’t ‘appreciate’ you. You exasperate me daily.”

“We were destined to meet, Quinn. Your mark proves it. And the word ‘destined’ is one I never thought I would utter, believe me. You were destined to help me.”

“Oh, fucking awesome.” Quinn stood up and began to pace the side of the pool, furiously, his naked body bathed in an eerie blue light. “Great. Wonderful. Do you realize how selfish you sound? No, how selfish you fucking ARE?”

Carrie had stood up too. “Not the issue, but I mean, help me with work! Like in Islamabad or… Help me do our fucking duty! But…”

He had stopped, looking at her, so ready to yell at her, but she was thinking, searching for words. “But I want more than that,” she explained. “We can have more than that.” She gestured in the direction of the soulmark again. “This is – how can you not see that this is… magic – a miracle? The proof of a bond that… is… I don’t know…”

Quinn shook his head, but Carrie was already saying: “Look at me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.” 

“I…”

She took a step forward, and put her hand on his chest.

“Tell me.”

“Carrie, I…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t love you anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Carrie said, stepping nearer – moving her hand to his face – to his shoulder – to his arm – to his heart again. “I… Please, Quinn, just… Let’s try again. Let’s give this a chance. Give me a chance. Please.” 

"Carrie," he croaked. "Let me go."

"No. Please. Quinn."

The problem with being naked (literally) is, there are some physical reactions that you can’t really hide. Yes, that one, obviously, sure, the one you are thinking about, but also, when your heart is racing, and that a woman has her hand on your chest, and that there are no layers of cloth between her fingers and your skin. 

“Carrie, don't,” he whispered, and then he shook his head. “ Please don't. _You _have no mark. So even if all this bullshit was true…”__

__“So it is bullshit?” she asked in a low voice, tracing the lines of his upper body with her fingers. “Did you always think it was bullshit? When you were protecting me during the Javadi operation, you thought your mark was bullshit? When you came to me in Islamabad, when you kissed me, you really thought it was bullshit, at the time?”_ _

__“I thought…” Quinn voice faltered and he just shrugged, again. “I was wrong.”_ _

__“Kiss me.” Carrie’s voice was soft. Her fingers were on his jaw – on his neck – he couldn’t resist, of course he couldn’t, he was marked – pretty powerful, these things are, believe me. So they kissed, softly at first, but they were naked (remember?) and Carrie pressed herself against him, and he took her in his arms and almost crushed her, and the kiss was becoming violent, his hands feeling everywhere and her hands even more greedy when he detached himself, violently, too._ _

__“Fuck, Carrie, you want to know what I fucking thought? At the time?”_ _

__“What…? Yes,” she said, a little breathless, and obviously, you know, about Quinn, the physical reactions we were talking about? All there._ _

__“I thought…,” he almost spat, furiously, “I thought that fucking mark meant I was going to die for you. Ok, Carrie? Satisfied? The soulmark system – interesting enough for you yet?” Carrie tried to say something, but he continued, “And yes, obviously, I also thought… When we were back from Islamabad, for a fleeting second, I imagined… but don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake twice.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because I don’t want to get my heart ripped out again," he yelled, "that is fucking why, Carrie, ok?”_ _

__She thought of all the ways she could have answered, but then she chose the simpler method – just kissing him for a second time – and pressing her against him, and he – well, again, there are advantages to being naked, and soon he was pressing her against the blue wall, but just before things got irreversible, (how’s that for a metaphor?) he violently shook her off._ _

__“You – all your reasons – all the reasons you gave are selfish, Carrie.”_ _

__“Yes.” She was almost in tears. “But you know that about me, and you love me anyway, right?”_ _

__“You,” he continued furiously, “You have no mark.”_ _

__“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t. But that is the… You didn’t choose me, Quinn. You didn’t have a choice, but I will. I do. And I will choose you.”_ _

__Yeah, well, the conversation ended there. Mostly. The interesting part, at least. Because, of course, he could not resist. It took a little time, there was a little bit more fighting, a little bit more arguing, but soon they were fucking again, upon the wall, violently and tenderly and he was stammering, in a low voice, telling her things he never dared to say before, and she was whispering in his ear: “don’t die for me. Live for me.”_ _

__And, long story short, he did._ _

__Cause the universe is fucked up. But there is also, you know, magic._ _


End file.
